


Concerto

by Bitchii_usa



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Drama, F/M, Music AU, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2018-09-16 13:49:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 162,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9274775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitchii_usa/pseuds/Bitchii_usa
Summary: He's a closed off, guarded musician prodigy who conducts his own orchestra. She's an artistic genuis who struggles between living her own identity and listening to others. Their sun and moon personalities clash, but their awe of each other's artistic abilities makes it hard to stay away. An artsy AU based on an ask from Vegetapsycho's Tumblr.





	1. Introduction

Chapter 1: Introduction

The harsh, cold wind slapped her neck unapologetically , making Bulma curse herself again for not wearing her scarf. She sucked in a crisp breath of air, making her teeth chatter in retaliation, but soon only the loud clicks of her heels on the pavement clouded her mind. She had to make it on time—she just had to— or Yamcha would never let her hear the end of it. And she would run down the busy streets of West City in six inch heels with no scarf, battling the coldest day of this ongoing winter before she fought with him again. Relationships are supposed to be fun, right?

A ghost of a smile tugged on the corners of her mouth as the theater came into view. She stopped and scrunched over, taking in precious gulps of the minty air as her lungs struggled to regain their normal pace. Looking up again, she saw that several people were outside poisoning themselves with nicotine, laughing and chattering away as if there was no concert at all. Looking down at her watch, she laughed deviously as she realized she had twenty minutes to spare. All those late night trips to the gym had paid off, and damnit all if she didn't deserve a reward.

She snuck into the alleyway, pressing her small frame against the brick wall and pulled out a cigarette. Her eyes deliciously devoured the stick, excited for the promise of mentholy goodness that she had not inhaled for… weeks? Months? Who knew anymore. Yamcha had told her it was unfitting for a woman of her stature, so she had given them up.

Well, not all of them.

She fiddled around in her pocket for her lighter, her fingers scrapping over receipts, candy and coins. "Oh come on!" she clicked her teeth, now practically turning her pockets inside out. "Oh just fucking fantastic! I finally get a chance to smoke, and I don't even have a lighter!" Feeling a tantrum slithering it's way through her chest, she turned around to face the wall and kicked it. That felt good. She turned to check both ends of the alleyway. No one there. Perhaps the wall deserved another kick…and another…and another…

Bulma lost herself in her own mania, frantically kicking the wall for the pent up frustration she had been stifling for weeks. The front of her cherry red pumps were scuffed, as well as her big toe, but she laughed away the pain. For the first time in a long time getting lost in not able to feel it. Or feel anything…

"What the hell?"

A velvety baritone made her look up, her gaze locking with judgmental black moons. Oh, well great. Here she was making an absolute fool of herself, and not only had she been caught, not only had she risked being identified, but now her current cause of anxiety was handsome. It made her blush away in embarrassment.

"It's nothing so you can stop staring now. " She pursed her lips, removing the cigarette that threatened to fall from them. She curiously ran her eyes over the man in front of her and propped her hands on her hips. "So? Aren't you going to get on with it?"

He rose an eyebrow.

"Taking your picture? Selling it to the press? I can see it now— Bulma Briefs Breaks Down in Alleyway. I know how you deep city people are."

The man huffed, shutting his eyes and shaking his head. "Is that supposed to be a clever way of demanding that I know who you are?"

"Everyone knows who I am."

"Well then it's a damn good thing that I'm not everyone else," he rolled his eyes and began to fumble in the thick pockets of his long black coat.

"You've never heard of me? The Bulma Briefs ? Heiress? Socialite? Makes a mean cocktail?"

"Hmph. Well now I want to know about you even less," he drew out a premium looking cigar, studying it over with distaste. He propped it in his mouth nonetheless, proceeding to light it.

"Hey can I borrow that for a sec?" Bulma's eyes widened in excitement, her goal seeming more attainable.

He looked over at her, his face brooding. He clicked his teeth. "I'll light it. I don't want your grubby hands dirtying it."

Bulma looked at him in disbelief. The nerve! But what other choice did she have if she wanted to sate her vice?

Once it was lit and she dragged slowly through the butt, her words became sharp daggers. "You always such an asshole to complete strangers?"

"Depends? Do you always annoy strangers in alleyways with your pretentious babble? " Asshole. He shut his eyes and drew a long puff from his cigar, immediately releasing the vapors.

"You're smoking that wrong," she chided, "you're not even letting yourself enjoy the flavor of the smoke."

"That's because I don't smoke," and with that, he let it fall to the ground before being crushed by his heavy shoe.

 

"Then why are you?"

 

"Why are you asking so many damned questions?" He grit his teeth. She smiled. Her father had always called her inquisitive.

 

"Just curious. Never knew someone could be so secretive with tobacco."

 

"If you must know," he growled, "someone gave it to me. They're just trying to kiss my ass, but the least they could do is get me something useful."

 

"And yet, you're still smoking it. Says more about your character then theirs. "

"Such an infuriating woman," he cursed under his breath, but she still heard him. She smiled. This was fun. 

"You here for the concert too?" She sucked in more of the mint smoke, the tobacco vapor helixing down her chest. "My boyfriend is in the orchestra."

"Oh?" His eyes perked up then, curiosity dancing across his irises, "which one is he?"

"Long black hair, scar on his cheek from a teenager. He's second chair cello. " She beamed with pride.

"Only second chair?"

She scowled and cast him a death glare. "Hey, I'll have you know that he could've been first chair if he wanted to! It's not his fault that his conductor is such a prudish stick in the mud!"

"How so? Do you even know the man you're speaking so ill of?"

"I don't need to know him! I've seen Yamcha come in late at night, fuming over that arrogant asshole! He may be talented, but that's no reason to treat the orchestra like crap!"

"Hmm, well perhaps your boyfriend should find a new orchestra to play in. We all get a choice in our affairs, so if he's just going to whine, why stay around?"

"You say that now, but you'll see when the concert starts. Yamcha says he even conducts like he's got a pipe up his ass."

The man shook his head and chuckled. "You're such a vulgar woman. I can't fathom how your boyfriend puts up with you but complains about his job." He turned stiffly on her, walking in the opposite direction of the theater. Bulma felt the irritation colliding with her reason. How could anyone be such a smug piece of shit?

"You're not staying?"

He shrugged his shoulders but continued on. "I refuse to sit and watch these things. I have more important things to do."

Bulma clicked her teeth and watched him walk down the alley until he was barely visible. What a jerk.

She stomped out her cigarette and made her way to the front of the theater. Her foot collided with something weighty, and upon looking down, discovered that it was the man's lighter. How hilarious that he didn't want her touching it, but had dropped it so easily.

She picked it up and studied it. What was so important about it anyways? It was detailed in its design on the rustic surface, embroidered with small crests and vines. A intricately cursived 'VN' sat perfectly in the center. Clearly important enough to etch the initials of your name into it.

Now where had she heard those initials before? Something tickled her mind, and she grabbed her clutch to look at her ticket. The Greater Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Vegeta N'Ouija.

Oh.

He couldn't sit and watch it. Had more important things to do.

Ohhhh.

_A/N_

_I really shouldn't be writing another story. But inspiration never warns when it strikes. This is based on an ask by VegetaPsycho's Tumblr, which I will link when I get to a computer. And it was the encouragement of my fellow Vegebul Tumblr friends that made me want to make this into a fic. I hope you guys will enjoy this one . Rate and Review please!_


	2. Admiration

Chapter 2: Admiration

The inside of the theater left Bulma in awe. The dim, golden lighting, the Italian art pieces that adorned the walls, the soft lull of the water from the angelic waterfall in the center of the room, all of it was intricately beautiful. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen the finer things in life, but they had never told a story like _this_.

A younger man, who spent an uncomfortable amount of time gazing at her lips, took her ticket and escorted her to her seat. She wondered if everyone received this sort of treatment, but brushed it off as human decency.

The seats around her taunted her sudden case of isolation. Between helping her father at their factory, being the girlfriend of a musician and still finding time to indulge in her own pleasures, friendship had become a luxury. Too bad. She was sure that the concert would be hard to get through, and a little gossip would surely pass the time.

"Bulma? Is that you? "

Her eyes looked up to meet a set of familiar ones, practically hidden behind long black bangs, and Bulma smiled with glee. She dramatically thanked whoever was above that dared to listen to _her_ prayers, of all people.

"Chi Chi? Wow, haven't seen you in forever! "

"I know!" Chi Chi exclaimed, moving a tendril of hair that slept on her cheek to behind her ear. "Those college days sure were fun."

"Tell me about it, I'd do anything to be that carefree again."

"Come now, surely it isn't that bad for you? I read about you in the paper with your dad's new invention. That's so awesome that you guys are working on a smart home. And Yamcha was there too? You guys are still hanging in there, huh? "

"Yeah," she smiled sweetly, turning her head to the stage, "we're still making it. He's actually the reason why I'm here."

"Oh? Is he in the orchestra?"

"Mmhmm, second chair cello. "

"My, well go Yamcha! Glad to see he followed his dream there. Is anyone sitting next to you?"

"No, I'm the only one of Yamcha's family that was able to make it, so these seats are just open. "

"Well perfect then," Chi Chi removed her coat and draped it over her arm, smoothed out the lower part of her dress and sat down with a contented sigh.

"Oh, uh, sorry Chi Chi, but you can't sit here."

"And just why not?" Chi Chi met her gaze with the same fiery aura that had gotten them into trouble many times during university.

"Because this is reserved for the family of the musicians."

"Oh, is that all? I thought for a second you didn't want my company," Chi Chi chuckled and placed a well manicured nail under her chin. "It's a good thing my husband is the bass player."

"Husband? You got married?! "

"Sure did," Chi chi folded open her wallet as a plastic lined collage of family photos cascaded down, "and had a child to boot."

"Beautiful family," Bulma admired, and for a split second wondered what she and Yamcha would look like as a picturesque family. With children. Such thought may be best reserved for later.

"Thank you. I'm surprised you and Yamcha don't have at least a few little ones roaming about. After all, it has been about ten years since-"

Chi Chi's sentence was cut off as the lights in the theater dimmed down further, only a half of golden light encompassing the stage. Bulma released a breath that she didn't realize she was holding and relaxed. She was really getting sick of the "when are you and Yamcha going to… " talks.

The velvet red curtains rose from the floor, putting the occupants of the orchestra on display. From the effects of the lights, and her seating arrangement, they looked pristine. Golden. Men and women of substance and glory. She spotted Yamcha prepping his bow with resin, and she felt a glimmer of pride course through her belly. He looked regal sitting up there, as if he wasn't the same goofy Yamcha who refused to stop telling the same jokes since they were eighteen.

Next she spotted Chi Chi's husband, who seemed a bit uncomfortable in his suit. He kept tugging on the sleeves and loosening the collar, and his thick black hair looked desperate to break out of its slicked back style. He was a very muscular man, so it made sense that he felt bogged down by the suit. Nonetheless, it made her chuckle, and earned a questioning look from her friend.

The theater erupted in applause, and Bulma ceased her laughter to realize that the conductor was now approaching his pit. Her stomach dropped. That man in the alleyway, Vegeta N'Ouija, had sat and listened to her disrespect and insult him. And to make matters worse, she had basically told him that Yamcha didn't like him and complained about him regularly. God, just how bad had she screwed this up?

Vegeta reached his position and turned so that his side faced the crowd. His face was serious, stoic and downright mean. Bulma folded her arms, expecting for the music to be just as stiff as he was.

Vegeta raised his arm, ushering the orchestra to ready their instruments. Violas and violins were tucked under chins as bows were raised and placed on strings. The celloists sat a little taller, the lone base player stopped his fidgeting. Their mannerisms completely changed on cue, serious and determined and ready.

She noticed the tightness of Vegeta's jaw line relax, and if she blinked too fast she would've missed it, but it seemed like he even smiled. He circled his baton and the music began. The soft openings of the strings washed over the audience, captivating their attention. The crescendo's were brilliantly dramatic, the staccato of the strings cleverly adding to the beauty of the piece. Several audience members began discussing their favorite players in hushed whispers, and even Chi Chi had cheered her husband on for his brief bass solo. Everyone's attention was stuck on the marvelous orchestra and their ability to create such a beautiful sound with nothing but their hands.

Everyone's attention was on them, except for Bulma.

Her eyes would not pry themselves away from Vegeta. From the moment he brought his baton down to start the musical selection, it was as if he morphed into a different man. Gone was the asshole that she encountered in the alleyway, and in his place was someone more marvelous, more beautiful.

She watched the way that he paid attention to each part of the orchestra, how each section of instrument got his undivided attention, and yet no one was ever neglected. Everyone had direction, and all they had to do was glance up to his flicker of flamed hair to know how to get there. He moved his hands with purpose, with dignity. There was a sense of pride in the way he flicked his baton and emphasized the piece the way he saw fit. How could someone create something so beautiful, and by merely instructing?

In that brief moment, she willed him to look at her, point his eyes in her direction so that he could taste the admiration from her unmoving gaze. Had she ever laid eyes on such a man before? He commanded so much, and the rest of the orchestra followed without complaint. Trust. They trusted him. They proved it by pouring out their affection by way of musical note. It made her want to trust him, made her wonder if he was this beautiful in how he instructed every area of his life. Why did Yamcha hate him?

Yamcha. That's right. Her boyfriend was playing his heart out, playing for her to hear, and she disgraced him by thinking of another. And not just any other, but the man who stressed her poor, darling Yamcha out weekly. Was she so bad for getting lost in the music?

She dared herself to look at Vegeta again, and this time he was looking toward the audience. A smug smile stole his lips as he peered over the patrons. Then they stopped, in her direction. Her breath caught in her chest, and it seemed like a spotlight shone directly on the two. Vegeta waved his hand, gesturing the orchestra to get dramatically louder. Bulma watched him with sharp intensity, wondering if he was looking at her or just in the general direction. He smiled again, turning back to face his orchestra into the rest of the piece. The moment was over, if there was ever one to begin with.

Two hours. The concert lasted for two hours and Bulma felt incredibly guilty by the end of it. She still hadn't managed to stop paying attention to the very talented conductor with the handsome face, and her equally handsome boyfriend was right in front of her. What was her problem?

As soon as he circled his baton, signaling the final piece for the evening, his hardened face returned. Bulma felt as if she was slapped by reality as he transformed back into the same many from the alley. Perfect. He stiffly bowed as the curtains closed them off, creating a barrier between her and whatever the hell had transpired for the past two hours.

"That was amazing!" Chi chi exclaimed over her applause. "My Goku did such a good job!"

"Goku? Your husband, right?"

Chi chi nodded, her face beaming with pride. Bulma knew that look all too well. It was the look she had for Yamcha, even though he wasn't the focus of her attention. How terrible was she, to be thinking of another man? Even if it wasn't sexual, even if it was only pure admiration, she was still wrong, right?

"Come on!" Chi Chi broke through her thoughts as she slipped on her coat. "Let's go backstage and greet our guys! I don't know about Yamcha, but Goku spent days and nights preparing for this concert. I want to wish him a job well done and cook him some dinner. I'm sure the brute's famished. What about you? Does Yamcha know what you're doing?"

"W-What?" Bulma s heart raced as she considered Chi Chi's question. She hadn't been that obvious, had she?

"I mean when you get home? They'll be on break for three weeks before practice starts up again, I'm sure you have loads of things planned for you two."

"Oh." She breathed a small sigh of relief. "Just food and sex, Cheech. I'm sure that's what he'll want to do."

"Same old Yamcha," Chi Chi rolled her eyes and stood up. "Well let's make our way back so I can kiss my husband. And maybe I'll give that conductor a piece of my mind for making my poor Goku work so hard You should too, I'm sure he's been just on hard on Yamcha."

"Yeah." Bulma's mind raved as she gathered her , no she wasn't being inappropriate, she was simply admiring art in the musical form. She wasn't checking out his strong jawline, or the way that his suit fit the sharp muscles on his shoulders, swimming perfectly over his chiseled arms. She hadn't thought about if he was gifted in other areas of his life. _NOO,_ absolutely not. He was talented and she was in awe.

And she would go to the back and kiss _her_ boyfriend, and shower him with praise, and take him home later and fuck him until he begged her to stop.

And she would do so without the guilt trip, thank you very much.

_A/N_

_Here's chapter two for you guys! Rate and review please!_


	3. Backstage

Chapter 3: Backstage

The backstage was a tornado of bustle; the musicians loosening their ties and setting their instruments back in their cases. Several of the men began to talk about having a nightcap at the local bar; laughing of filling their bellies with brews and finding a woman to bed for the night.

Vegeta watched them all from the shadows of the curtains, drumming his bicep with his fingers. A scowl darkened his features as he thought of how he could express how he felt about his current piece coming to life.

"You did a good job on that bass solo, Goku," a viola player beamed as he tucked his bow away in his case while he rubbed his bald head. "I was pretty impressed that you nailed it after learning in such a short amount of time."

"Yeah, I was surprised too. I thought Vegeta was just setting me up to fail by telling me about it only a week ago," Goku smiled sheepishly and played through his thick, black mane. "I guess I proved him wrong."

Vegeta scoffed. It was true; he had given the solo to the overly buff base player with such a short notice. But Goku was wrong about trying to set him up. Vegeta would never admit it out loud, but he saw potential in the slightly younger man that he hadn't witnessed in ages. The first time he heard him play, he felt a sense of excitement that he thought was lost on him throughout his musical career. Sure, his orchestra was _good_ ; but once in awhile there was one that stood out among the rest, one that carried the ability to read notes of any clef and play the pitch perfectly. Who could pick up any instrument and play it as if it was an extra limb on his body. Goku surely fit the bill. And Vegeta hadn't met anyone who came even remarkably close since…. well...since himself.

And a swift kick in the "never-takes-anything-seriously" man's ass could push him in the right direction. And possibly save Vegeta's last nerve.

"Even Vegeta smiled at you during it, so you must have done his piece justice. Either that or he was upset that he didn't get to embarrass you." Krillin. That was his name. He talked too much and it irritated Vegeta to his very soul, but the man _could_ play like nobody's business. That fact did not surpress the throbbing vein that pulsated in his forehead, however.

"I'm sure he's pleased with it. By now, he would storm out here and say that we disgraced his time and talent. "

Vegeta grit his teeth. Not the he cared or anything, but is _this_ how his own orchestra saw him? As some screaming, yelling, pipe stuck up his ass tyrant? Furthermore, did it matter when he composed such a beautiful score with the perfect sense of direction and conducting?

No. No it did not, and Vegeta would not play nice for the sake of being liked.

But that _woman_. The one with the obnoxious blue hair that he had a hard time diverting his attention from. She let him know that even _she_ , someone who did not know him enough to count the hairs on his hand, had passed judgment because her inferior boyfriend couldn't handle his tough regimen. _Yamcha_. Bile on Vegeta's tongue. Was he _that_ incompetent that he couldn't see the bigger picture? That many had _begged_ to even have an hour of his time, his teachings, so they could grow as a musician? What did they do, lay on their over sized pillows while sipping wine, basking in the glow of after sex and discussing his personality? If he ever saw that infuriating woman again, he would perhaps give her a piece of his mind.

"Oh, Vegeta!" Goku looked over to the hidden figure, preparing to walk over. "We didn't see you back there."

"I don't recall asking to be seen," Vegeta folded his arms and propped a leg behind him to support himself on the wall.

"Sure, sure, " Goku waved him off, chuckling. "It was really great to hear the way everything sounded live. The audience was pretty receptive, I heard them clapping for minutes after we exited."

"Your point?"

"My point," Goku continued, not perturbed by Vegeta's dark sarcasm, "is that you composed an amazing score! The second part, after we repeat the bridge, was really something."

"No need to kiss my ass, Kakarot. I am aware it was a good piece."

"Goku, Vegeta. I don't know why you keep calling me Kakarot."

"When you stop reminding me of my neighbors whiny mutt, then perhaps I will give you a new name."

"Okay… I think. Well, are you happy the way it turned out?"

"Do I look happy?"

"Uh… I dunno, honestly. It's hard to tell with you."

"Well when you figure it out," Vegeta stood up straight and walked passed Goku, jamming his hands into his pocket, "let me know."

Vegeta left Goku scratching his head as he tunnel visioned the exit. The concert was over and he wasn't _disappointed_ , but now wasn't time to relish in the moment. It was time for bigger, for better, for a new masterpiece.

"Babe you did so good!"

Vegeta stopped in his tracks. There was the voice that was his current irritation. He turned to watch the encounter out of the corner of his eye, pressing his lips tightly into a thin line.

"Thank you gorgeous," Yamcha spinner her around, letting his arm rest firmly under her butt. He gave it a quick squeeze and Vegeta wished he could've unseen it.

"You were so svelte up there," Bulma rested her hands on his shoulders, batting her eyelashes prettily at him. "I felt like I was looking at a different Yamcha."

"Oh stop, babe, " Yamcha blushed, setting her down, "it's just the suit."

"I like the suit," Bulma pursed her lips together and ran her fingers down the red silk of the front of his jacket, "It gives me ideas… " she rolled her tongue and leaned I'm close to his ear, whispering words that turned Yamcha's cheeks into cherries.

Bulma continued her torment of her barely standing boyfriend, coyly moving her eyes around as her puckered lips continued their torture. Vegeta was just about to turn away from the grotesque scene when onyx eyes collided with blue ones.

Bulma blushed, her pink pout forming in a perfectly formed o. She slowly released her hold on Yamcha, backing slowly away until their bodies were barely touching. Vegeta curled his lip over her top teeth. Why the hell was she looking at him like that?

He turned his stare away from her and proceeded to leave. Sure he said that he would give her a piece of his mind, but now all he wanted was to remove himself from the stuffy atmosphere.

"Hey, Vegeta, wait a minute!" A warm hand accompanied the words, and he looked down with annoyance at the woman's loose grip on his forearm.

"What do you want?" he shrugged himself from her embrace, earning a raised eyebrow from her.

"Well, I had no idea that I was in the presence of someone so mighty earlier. " She chuckled away the tension, briefly glancing down at the floor. "You could've said something."

"Perhaps it'll do you better next time to do your research instead of pestering strangers in the alley. Now if you'll excuse me—"

"Just hold on a second! Geeze, are you always this so wound up? " She placed her hands on her hips, putting all her weight on one leg. "Look," she sighed, "I'm sorry for all that stuff I said back there. I was just a little upset about a few things, and dealing with my issues and Yamcha's issu—" she stopped, noticing the way Vegeta's eye twitched. "I'm just sorry, okay? Please don't hold it against Yamcha. "

"Don't waste your irrelevant apologies on me. You feel how you feel. And the only thing that I want from that speck of a man is his dedication to my music. "

"Don't be like that. And despite what you say, it still wasn't right. How's about we start over?" She extended a hand to his, a smile splitting her face in two. "I'm Bulma."

Vegeta glanced down at her hand before slowly making his way back to her face. He watched her expression grow to aan uneasiness at his quiet and chuckled internally. "You already know my name."

"My God, you're awful at decent human interaction."

"There is nothing decent about humans. The quicker you realize it the better off you'll be."

"Oh yeah?" Bulma smiled coyly and reached into her pocket. She walked into Vegeta's close proximity, earning herself a quick lean back from the flame haired man, and a reddened neck, and placed her palm in the middle of his. "If humans weren't decent, they wouldn't return favors like this."

Vegeta studied his palm when her flesh left his own. In her wake was his rustic gold lighter, the VN sparkling magnificently under the headlights above. His jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth. How could he forget something so important? And in an _alleyway_ at that? He would've completely regretted the tragedy. But this woman had gone out of her way to return it to him. With no way of knowing it's importance, she had returned it without so much of a request. He should give her his thanks….

"I told you to keep your grubby hands off of it."

But his name was Vegeta.

He turned, quickening his stride to the exit, the howls of Bulma's yelling getting lost in the winds of the cold winter night.

"Normal people would say thank you, jerk! " The last thing he heard as the door slammed to the theater.

Normal people, she stated. Normal people would say thank you.

Perhaps, but he wasn't _people_. He was Vegeta N'Ouija, conductor extraordinaire.

He repeated that mantra to himself, hoping the thought alone would warm him as he bundled up to brave the cold world ahead.

_A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this story and please R &R!_


	4. When One Door Closes...

Chapter 4: When One Door Closes

Capsule Corporation sat in in the more industrial part of South City, overlooking a vast scenery of water, complete with a dense fog of various chemicals. On any given day, the otherwise clean air of South City was polluted with the intermixings of salt, iron and water.

It was a smell that, no matter how hard she tried to rid herself of it, attached to Bulma like a second skin.

"Sweetheart, you're going to contaminate my oil supply if you keep fussing over your hair like that," Bulma's father, Dr. Trunks Briefs, adjusted his glasses on his nose to momentarily scold his daughter.

Bulma turned to face him, a blue tendril of hair wrapping loosely from her finger while a Bobby pin dangled from her mouth. "Sorry, dad," she mumbled as she removed the pin, tucking her hair into a manageable updo, "but Yamcha's coming over, and I don't want him to see his girlfriend looking a greasy mess. It's bad enough I don't have time to shower to wash these chemicals away." She smelled her arm and made a disgusted face. The horror.

"He loves you, doesn't he? Then I'm sure he's content with however you look."

"Geeze dad you've been married forever," Bulma rest her hands on her hips and scrunched her nose at him, "you and mom may have already had time to adjust to each other, but I still have appearances to keep up. "

"But haven't you been together for about a decade?"

"That's not the point dad," she sighed and put her safety goggles back on, "just know that it's something I want to do."

"You do what pleases you honey," Dr. Briefs glanced back down at his blue prints and stroked his chin, "you look nice and I suppose that's what matters."

Bulma's face softened as she watched her dad. Old coot. He sure knew what to say to make someone feel special, and it was probably how he grabbed on to her mother in the first place. "Okay dad, so how much solution do we need to add to make this baby function?" She looked over at the model of their patent pending smart home, complete with Capsule Corp robots and charging stations. It would require a lot of work, but between his mind and her clever wit, it could be managed.

"About half a liter. I suppose it won't hurt to experiment with different levels if we need more. I'm thinking we use a hydro advanced cooling system to keep the wiring from getting too hot."

"Good idea," Bulma scribbled the noted down in her notepad, running her tongue over her top row of teeth, "I can work on the schematics of that on Friday. It will probably take me until Sunday, at the least—"

"Bulma… "

"And then on Monday I can start project building on a model. I can ask one of the new techs to help me-"

"Bulma!"

Bulma pursed her lips as she looked over at her father, her sharp eyes studying the tense lines around his mouth. "What is it, dad?"

Her father sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Sitting back in his chair and folding his arms, he shifted his thick, upper lip mustache while he chewed over his words carefully. "Honey," he started slowly, "do you know what weekend this is?"

The heat in Bulma stomach intensified and she gulped. _Of course_ she remembered what weekend it was. The date had been engraved in her memory like scuffed cement. She simply nodded, the curves of her mouth tightening into a line.

"I know it's hard, Bulma, I really do. But I have a buyer for the lot coming Friday morning, and I _need_ it cleaned out sweetheart."

Two days. Fantastic. She had two days to make the property shine like spitfire gold, and remove any trace of anyone utilizing the space. And scrub away her very soul that she imprinted there in the process. She sighed, forcing a slight tilt to her lips. "Say no more dad, I'll take care of it. I'll push the plans back until next week and have it all prepared."

"I'm really sorry it didn't work out for you, Bulma. I know how much you put into that place. "

She shrugged her shoulders, although the feeling of dread slept loudly in her belly. "It's just life. I suppose I can't have it all." She sighed, turning to look out the multi panel factory window, the mid day sun sparkling marvelously against her large, oceanic eyes. "I just wish it wasn't so much to remove with such a small time frame."

"Perhaps Yamcha could help you," Dr. Briefs grabbed a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, lighting it and inhaling the hypnotic fumes, "he has a two week break, right? "

"Absolutely not," Bulma turned to sharply stare at her father, her eyes rising to a light panic.

Dr. Briefs exhaled his smoke, the wisps curling around him like it was his own personal snake, and shook his head. "Am I wrong to assume that you've never told him about it?"

Bulma bit her lip and slowly shook her head, sheepishly looking at him like she was nine years old again and was caught tampering with her father's experiments.

Dr. Briefs sighed. "I don't know why you keep making this out to be some big secret, honey. I think you should at least tell Yamcha-"

"Tell me what?" Speak of the devil. Yamcha strolled in carrying two brown paper bags with grease stains and a drink tray. Instantly the corporation was filled with delectable smells that made the two Briefs' mouths salivate.

"Oh, just uh, that I wanted to have a little getaway with you while you're on break," Bulma shimmied her way to him, a large smile sketched on her face. She swallowed the truth that sat dormant on her tongue and took the drink tray away from Yamcha, "I wanted it to be a surprise, but you know my dad! Can never keep a secret!"

"Hmmm," Dr. Briefs shook his head at his silver tongued daughter. She was her mother through and through.

"That sounds great, babe," Yamcha sat the bags of food on a nearby table, removing the drink tray from Bulma and embracing her fully. "Where are you thinking of?"

She accepted the polite kiss he offered and smiled at him. "You pick. It is your vacation after all."

"Okay. Well what about that place in the mountains up North? You love it there, plus it has a great dojo so I can get some workouts in."

Bulma closed her eyes tightly as she smiled suspiciously hard. She hated the mountains. The air was thin and reeked of acidic water from the hot springs, their cabin never got comfortably warm, even if she sat directly in front of the fire place, and she wasn't a fan of waking up to little critters decorating the back yard like lawn gnomes. She and Yamcha frequented the mountains a lot when they first dated, and Yamcha _loved_ it. Bulma, however, loved _him_ and tolerated the whole ordeal to impress her new found boyfriend. In the beginning, she could watch him flex his muscles as they strained from a good workout, practically drooling on herself as she watched the sweat cascade down his slickened skin and get lapped up by the floor. Now, she had more of an exciting time watching paint dry.

But she needed to distract him from prying any further, in regards to her and her father's conversation, so she smiled and nodded. "Sure! Sounds like a plan to me."

"Awesome! I wanted to meet up with a couple of the guys from the orchestra before practice starts again," Yamcha began to dig through the bags, gathering a foil wrapped sandwich from the bottom. Bulma's mouth salivated, smelling the seasoned pork cutlet. " One of the guys brother owns a martial arts studio, so I figured we'd goof off there for a workout. I'd like to really shape up before then, though." Yamcha beelined to Dr. Briefs with the food and drink, offering it to him with a smile. Bulma watched jealously, hoping he thought of her empty stomach as well.

"Here, babe," Yamcha spoke with clairvoyance, "I didn't forget about my best girl." He placed an aluminum tray in her hand, covered with a plastic lid. Bulma frowned at the lack of grease, the subsiding of seasoned meat smells leaving her nose without a vice.

"What's this?"

"A tuna salad with no dressing. And I got you a cucumber water too."

"Salad?" Bulma's eye twitched as she pouted, the sounds and smells of her father munching happily into his pork cutlet sandwich igniting her irritation. "I don't get a sandwich too?"

"Oh, babe, you don't want one of those," Yamcha unwrapped his sandwich, unveiling a chicken breast with lettuce wrapped around in place of bread, "much too fattening for a woman with your curves. I figured we could eat healthy together."

"What's wrong with my body?!"

"Absolutely nothing!" Yamcha took a bite of his sandwich and gulped it down with his fruit smoothie. "I'm just doing my part as your loving boyfriend to make sure it _stays_ that way."

"How sweet of you," Bulma said drily, sarcasm dripping from her words like acid. She sighed and looked at the container again. Welp, no point in starving herself. She took a bite from the salad, shoving in goops of tuna meat and spinach on her fork. Bland. Completely unfulfilling and tasteless. She continued to shove it by the forkful until it was all gone. Glancing at the clock, she made a mental note to stop by the beef cart on her way to the lot and order a large beef sub. With extra gravy to dip it in. Her mouth and belly congratulated her on the wise decision.

Yamcha and Dr. Briefs finished their food as Bulma studied the blue prints further, making notations to the various experiments they wanted to run. She had practically zoned out their talks of future projects and workouts, until a certain subject and name pulled her out of her trance.

"I heard from a few old colleagues that the man could be a bit unreasonable," Dr. Briefs stuck his hands inside his large lab coat, "but I had no idea it was that awful."

"He's such an arrogant prick," Yamcha seethed, balling his fists at his sides, "he literally made us run scales for _three_ hours because one of the violin players kept playing off key. Said if we were going to play like underdeveloped children, then we would rehearse like them. For _one_ player. I literally ran the A scale seven times, and I haven't done that since I was ten!"

"Oh my," Dr. Briefs began to light another cigarette, "that intense, huh? Did anyone complain? I can't imagine wanting to practice on a piece and getting stuck running intermediate scales for children."

"He said anyone who didn't like it can leave! Which let me tell you was _so_ tempting, but none of us wanted to do that," Yamcha sighed, running his hands through his brown hair. "It was a shot in a dream to even _be_ a part of Vegeta's orchestra, especially after his brutal audition. If you want to make it in this business, unfortunately he's the guy to see. Fucking prodigy," Yamcha scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"He _is_ talented," Bulma said softly, although she soon had the attention of the two gentlemen.

"You noticed too, huh babe?"

Bulma's cheeks went flush red with embarrassment as she remembered the hypnosis his conducting produced. Of course she noticed. She wanted to kid herself and say that she was the _only_ one who noticed the confident breeze that oozed from his baton, or the way that his head moved slightly with the hums of the strings. She noticed all right, perhaps a little _too_ much.

"Babe?"

"Y-yeah, I noticed," she coughed to regain her cracked voice, "he is naturally good. Like I can tell that he wasn't trained for that. It's almost like it's a part of his DNA. I can see why you really wanted to join with him."

"Yeah," Yamcha sighed and dropped his head, "hopefully for not too long. Maybe in six months or so, I can catch the attention of someone at one of his concerts. Hasn't happened yet, but I hear that sometimes famous musicians will come in attendance to a concert and pluck members for their own benefit. Vegeta gets a small cut for letting one of his members go, and it seems like everyone benfits."

"Wow," Bulma said, although it kind of upset her. So was Vegeta just doing this for the money? Grooming up and coming musicians so that they could have a successful career and he could pay the bills to his penthouse every month? What a waste of pure talent.

"Oh, well, look at the time," Yamcha looked down at his watch as he walked over to Bulma, "didn't realize it was getting this late. I have to go meet with Puar for a practice session."

"Aren't you supposed to be on break?" Bulma chided. "You can't relax if you're practicing scales with Puar."

"It won't be for long," Yamcha wrapped her in his arms and smiled down at her, soaking in the soft, pretty lines in her face, "I just don't want him to feel left out since he didn't make the audition." He cupped her chin and kissed her softly. Once, twice, and a third to make her smile. "I'll see you later tonight, don't make me wait up for too long."

"I won't," she said, pulling away from the embrace as the insecurity of salt smells lingered over her.

"See you later, Dr. Briefs!" He called as he threw his coat on and waltzed out.

"You too, young man. Thank you for the lunch." Dr. Briefs watched the door close behind Yamcha, his eyes pressing into the center of the elevator style brown panels. "Bulma…" he said, his eyes still gazing forward.

"Yes, dad?"

"That boy will want to marry you. It's best you let him down gently, lest you break him completely."

Bulma felt her face flush. Marriage? To Yamcha? The two had never even discussed it, even after all this time. "W-what do you mean by that? Where did that come from?"

He turned to face her finally, his hands still shoved into his pockets. "I remember when you were a little girl, and you would play in my lab like you knew what you were doing. I would tease you and tell you that the laboratory was where I created the boogeyman and all types of creatures that scared other children before bed. Never scared you though," he chuckled as he let a memory wash over his features. "Do you remember what you told me?"

Bulma shook her head not, earnestly trying to remember.

Dr. Briefs walked to her and placed his hands on both of her shoulders. "You said, _I'm going to tell on you, old man. Mom is going to whoop your butt when she finds out you're trying to lie to your little girl. If you have to lie to someone, then it means you don't love them. Are you trying to say that you don't love me?_ "

Bulma looked at him in shock as a smirk played upon his lips. Had she always been so sharp tongued?

Dr. Briefs chuckled at his bewildered daughter. "I'll let that sink in on you honey. I suppose you should be heading out to the lot? I can finish things up here."

"Yeah," she nodded, her mind clouded over his words, "I'll head right on that."

"That's my girl," he gave her shoulders a squeeze and released her, "call me if you need some help with anything." She nodded again and threw her coat on.

What was her father trying to say? She _loved_ Yamcha. She had practically grown into an adult with him, made bad decisions with him, had the best sex with him and gave him everything she had to offer. That's love, if she ever heard it.

She couldn't tell Yamcha about _this_ , though. It was her diary in physical form, and he would have questions. Questions she didn't want to answer, topics she didn't want to talk about. He had shown her on more than one occasion that he didn't understand her indulgence, and she had no plans on making him see the light now.

Bulma wiped the sweat from her forehead and dusted off her overalls. They were too tight and too old, but it was the only thing she was willing to get dirty so they had to do. She looked around the 'progress' of the room. She was supposed to be repainting walls and boxing away her items, but instead she had gotten lost in the memories of it all. Each tile of this room had her engrained in it; her tears after a fight with Yamcha, her glee while she put on her favorite old jazz station while she drank, the times she slept because she got too caught up in her work. Everything was touched by her personally, and it hurt to know that someone else would soon call this home.

She picked up a painting, her earliest one, and ran her fingers over the blotchy paint. She smiled longingly as she remembered how she experimented with colors and techniques until she could find her own style of medium. It was supposed to be a woman lying on a bed of flowers cleverly disguised as a woman's most intimate part. Instead, it was just a swirl of pinks and greens and reds, all for the hell of it.

This space was her own growth as a painter, her footsteps into the art world on every canvas. It was her own isolated secret haven, one that only she and her parents knew about. Back then, around nineteen, she had the glorious idea of opening up a studio where she could paint, host galleries, and sell her artwork. Her parents liked the idea, and made enough money to support her, so they rented the space for her. After her first unsuccessful gallery, where only a few people from the corporation showed up, she questioned if she really had what it took to do it. Yamcha told her that he thought that she was _good_ , but in a "stick it on the fridge mom!" sort of way. He told her that she was a brilliant scientist and inventor, and that's where she should stick to her guns. So she did, completely abandoning the dream like a child who outgrew their favorite toy, and threw herself into her work at the corporation. She itched to pick up a brush, but the crushing defeat had only landed her on her bottom, and the fall and not been worth it.

Her parents had been telling her to clean out the space for months now, telling her the large, white tiled lot could be used for a better purpose than collecting dust, and could also help out with paying the property taxes. Bulma had put it off, sensing dread to see her dream dissolve between her fingertips like a small insect. But now here she stood: alone and sad and nostalgic and _sober_.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket then, pulling her from her pity party. "Hello?"

"Bulma, honey. It's dad."

"Caller ID, dad. Caller ID."

"Yes, yes of course," he chuckled, "are you at the lot, by chance?"

"Yep," she sighed into the receiver, "I'm here now, actually."

"Aaah good, good. Well listen, the buyer that I told you about wanted to get an early look at the space. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was pretty persistent. Said that if he couldn't look at it he wasn't interested in buying it."

"Just great," she growled, "so what do I have now? Like a day?"

"Actually, he said that he'll be there-"

The buzzer to the downstairs entrance rang loudly, cutting him off shortly. "Just a second dad, someone's at the door. I didn't realize people actually come to this place anymore."

"Well that's what I want to discuss with you! He says he's in the neighborhood and wanted to drop by to see it. So that should be him at the door."

"What!?" Bulma almost dropped the phone as he chest tightened. _Now?!_ He was coming _now?_ "Dad, I can't talk to him about this place! I barely want to give it up, and now I have to watch this complete stranger scope it out like a detective looking for a fingerprint?"

"You're a Briefs, honey, you can handle it! All he wants to do is look. Wouldn't it give you a peace of mind to see the person who will be claiming _your_ space?"

She sighed again as the buzzer went off. He had a point; she would want to meet the asshole who would be taking what she should have successfully built. "Fine, dad. I'll call you when he leaves so I can tell you how _terrible_ I think he is."

"I love you too, honey."

Bulma smiled and hung up the phone. Her dad had her wrapped around his finger, although she wasn't complaining. If ever there was a man to truly know her…

The buzzer went off again, almost impatiently as if the person was sending her a message of their irritation. "Alright, alright, I'm coming. Hold your horses, geeze," she pressed the intercom to let them up as she tried to push her paintings to the side and out of view. An unsuccessful attempt. She sighed and glanced in the reflection of herself through the glass of the wall to wall window. The setting sun painted her skin with the most brilliant shade of orange as she watched herself, and yet she frowned. Dust settled in between her hairs and eyelashes, and what little makeup she had put on was smudged and dirtied. Frankly, she could've used a shower at the moment, but she wasn't here to impress _this_ guy, of all people.

A loud knock put fire under her feet as she made her way to the door. She sighed, grabbing the handle and bracing herself for the impending sale. She put on the politest smile she could muster , closed her eyes and opened the door, speech in que.

"Hi there, thank you for coming to look at the property. I'm Bulma Briefs," she extended her hand and imagined that she was her mother, full of sugar and confidence in her hosting gig.

"Well, I never thought _you_ would be related to such an esteemed family."

Oh boy, that voice. Velevety and deep and smooth, washing over her in waves. She opened her eyes, hoping it would be a case of mistaken identity.

Nope, of course not. Life was never _that_ kind to anyone who dared to live it.

Her eyes settled on him; taking in his scowl that had the audacity to call itself his face and sighed.

Her father could have given her the name of the buyer, after all.

"Come on in, Vegeta," she said reluctantly, "I guess you're just who I've been expecting."

_A/N: Till next time guys, please read and review! If you have any questions or comments and don't want to leave them a review, I also reply swiftly to PM's!_


	5. ... One Isn't Guaranteed to Open

Chapter 5: …Another One Isn't Guaranteed to Open

_A/N: Wow guys, you all are pretty awesome. I really didn't expect anyone to really respond to this, especially since it was never pre planned, but you all have made my day. Because of that, I'm going to make and even meatier chapter. Hope you all enjoy (rest of A/N is after the story)_

_oooOOOooo_

_The golden lights pierced through his tuxedo sleeve, making his skin slightly slick with sweat._

_He was nervous. Why was he nervous? He had done this before._

_He straightened his tie, fastening it with a little too much strength, and stepped onto the podium. It was a flimsy thing, barely supporting his sturdy weight, but he managed to keep both feet pressed together. Chin up, shoulders back, chest raised. His mantra had not failed him so far; his own superstition, of sorts._

_Staring down at the persons in front of him made him feel powerful, respected. He smirked in pride, studying the faces that waited on his cue. He controlled them in that aspect; every movement they dared to make was at his call, and it created a surge in him that was electrifying. He lifted his arm, feeling the familiar power as it elevated, and brought it to peripheral of his eye. The audience drowned in silence, yet their attention was solely on him. Watching for the rhythmic dance that would exist in his fingertips. Praying that he would cast their existence away, if only for mere hours, and replace it with something his own; something more soothing than the pains of fussy children and draining jobs._

_And he would bless them; he would be their god, his justice merciful and forgiving._

_So he brought his wrist down._

_The music washed over him in colors; setting his olive skin aflame with fuchsias and yellows and teals. He could almost taste the notes if he tried hard enough, and each one was a sugar cube on his honeyed tongue. His knees almost buckled at the euphoria of it all, but he kept his composure and indulged in his vice further._

_He studied their faces as the cellists prepared to bundle their notes in the other musicians' blanket of pizzicato. He had especially loved composing that part; he envisioned it as riding down a river on his back; the dusk creeping on him as he lost himself in the awe of nothingness. Sweet, tragic, and most importantly, captivating._

_But something was off, in the name of a violinist. It was an annoying bug in his ear at first, and he figured a stern look would set the musician straight, but now it was ridiculous. The flat note was getting louder as the man plucked away on his string with such force that it threatened to snap. He looked at the player with complete hatred and disgust. How dare this man filth his composition with such immature playing? The man was smiling at him, a sly grin that was as gleeful as it was poisonous, and stood up, walking closer to the podium. He plucked harder as he walked, his heavy feet following in synchronized steps. The orchestra kept playing, their eyes trained on their god, not even bothering to look at their sheets. It unnerved him, the entire scene, but the man was closer now and his uneasiness was replaced with rage._

_He opened his mouth to speak but the music choked him; his words getting lost in chords and staccatos. The man was bold, he had to admit, to disrupt the concert. His concert. He would ruin this man's career, whoever he was. The lights were so blinding, and to his most recent observation he realized he couldn't make out the man's face. There was, however, no denying the sharp point that his flamed hair came abruptly to. He raised an eyebrow at the finding. Why was this man's style so familiar, and furthermore, why did everyone in the orchestra have the same hairdo?_

_More of the players started to sour their notes, almost intentional, standing up in defiance and grinning at him. What was their problem? Why were they set on humiliating him like that? He wanted to lower his arm; stop conducting and yell at them all and call them third chair idiots. But his arm had its own agenda, dancing along to the beat in perfect rhythm and synch. It made his stomach churn._

_The audience was a still kind of quiet, similar to twilight painting a forest, their appreciative eyes begging for more, as if they weren't already emerged in the dark shadows of bliss. They were greedy; he wondered how much more he could give. He questioned their sanity for a brief moment before focusing back on his own orchestra. Why couldn't he stop? At the very least, he just wanted to get the hell out of there._

" _You're doing great darling!"_

_That voice. The familiarity of it created a tingle in his stomach that was unforgiving, and he nearly doubled at the sound of its sweet melody. He turned, letting his arm continue its snake charm, and found the source. A woman, based on her figure that was all but swallowed in shadow, waved to him from the upper balcony. She was leaning so dangerously over the edge and he wanted to tell her that she should move backward. But his voice was inaccessible._

" _Are you playing for me? I certainly hope so! This sounds like the one you wrote all those years ago!"_

_His perception of the music changed. This was an old piece, and he bathed in the memories at his nostalgia. He had written it with a heart drenched in affection…_

" _Oh, I love that part!" She clenched her chest and closed her eyes, her body leaning more and more over the railing. "Yes, darling, you know how much I love the cello! And you play it so well, so beautifully! How did I get so lucky to have you?"_

_He wanted to tell her he knows that. He wanted to tell her he loved the feeling of the bow against the string because it was made from the structure of her smile. He wanted to tell her that she was too close to falling and that she needed to sit down._

" _Oh, Vegeta. You've made me so happy with your talent. I just know the rest of the world is going to love you as much as I do." She opened her eyes and looked at him with the warmth of the sun, and for a moment he could see her clearly. His eyes widened, moistened in the corners, and yet he still could not reach out to her. She tossed something at him, a rustic gold object, and blew him a kiss. And then she fell._

_He heard the sickening crunch of her bones snapping and his mouth gaped in horror. He wanted to scream in mourning, but all he could do was stare. His arm kept betraying him, swaying to the growing off key of tone. Why was this still going on? She had just fallen to her death in front of them all, and no one batted an eye._

_The music still played on._

_And no one noticed her._

oooOOOooo

Vegeta sat up abruptly, his chest racing to catch up with his labored breaths. He fought to bring himself back to reality, the haze of his dream slowly wearing thin around his vision.

He ran his fingers through his course mane and took a deep breath. He didn't want to think about things like that, and yet his brain decided to make it a motion picture presentation for him. He was just as cruel to himself as he was to others, apparently.

He placed his feet against the cold wood of his apartment and glanced at the clock in front of him. 3:42 pm. He wasn't even supposed to be napping; he was _supposed_ to be composing. The papers taunted him then, brushing against his foot. He had only managed to write notes for three bars. Great.

Standing up and stretching, Vegeta shook his head from the hellish nightmare that still attached itself to him like a scored shadow. If he had the power to unplug memories from his brain, he would be all the better for it in the long run. He glanced around his cramped apartment and sighed. He had been sleeping in his living room for the past year because his piano, cello, bass, saxophone and other instruments and accessories had completely taken up any comfortable space in his home. He knew better when he moved here in the first place, but at the time he wasn't thinking and was making decisions on auto pilot. Now he was prepared to change that.

His real estate agent had told him about a spacious, factory style apartment in South City's industrial district. The asking price was cheaper than he would have guessed, and he was told that he would be able to fit all of his instruments in with additional room to spare. He was sold in that aspect, despite not having seen it yet. Even though he arranged to view it Friday, his impatience and current mood demanded that he see it now. The old mad would have to oblige; who else would buy a property in such a noisy, polluted part of town? And to buy it completely off of his hands for good? Vegeta would lose any ounce of respect for the man if he complained, and losing respect in his eyes meant his sharp tongue came out to play.

He groomed himself over and tossed on his coat. The crisp winter day yawned at the promise of slumber, producing a tight wind that rustled Vegeta's hair. He briskly walked to his car and dialed the old man's number. Maybe seeing where he would be staying would erase the weight in his shoulders. He hoped the walls would be white, an indication of a fresh start, instead of the uncharacteristically warm yellow ones that he saw daily. Ones that were too bright, too old, and too full of screaming anxieties from his past.

Yes, white would be the perfect color.

oooOOOooo

"Come on in Vegeta, I guess you're who I've been expecting."

Vegeta eyed her curiously before taking the bait and stepping inside. He had never seen the woman before in his life, and with her bright teal hair color it would _definitely_ be hard to forget her, and yet she was everywhere he turned lately. He could barely tolerate Yamcha enough as it was, and now the woman he was dating would be popping in and out of his daily routine as well? He certainly wasn't letting that happen without a fight.

"Where is the older man I spoke with, Dr. Briefs?" A scowl painted his face, the lines of his cheek sharpening with his tense jaw. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. "I would like to handle this _professionally_."

She put her hands on her hips, allowing all of her weight to fall to one side as she met his hard gaze. Her blue moons that she called eyes hardened like cement. "And just what makes you think that I'm not capable of the job? This property is just as much mine as it is my father's."

"You don't say?" He eyed her up and down then, taking in her black overalls that were possibly a size too small as it practically devoured her figure, and her wild hair that was an attempt at an updo. She settled on dust as makeup it seemed, and if Vegeta didn't know her already he would assume she was a squatter. "Do you always conduct business matters looking like a beggar?"

Bulma blinked her large eyes in his direction and he could see the contained fire that ignited beneath them. "E-Excuse me?! Just who in the hell do you think you're talking to?! You want to buy _my_ property and you dare insult me like that?!"

"Exactly, I do want to buy _your_ property, and if you're set on ruining that then _please_ keep screeching at me like a banshee."

"The nerve of you!" She closed her eyes, pressing her lips into a tight line as she tried to regain whatever composure she had left. "Perhaps we have gotten off on the wrong foot." She cleared her throat and managed to paint a porcelain smile on her lips. She caught his gaze, a stare so sharp that it contradicted the curves of her mouth. "I would like to perhaps show you around the lot if you are interested in buying it-"

"I don't need a spiel," he turned on her, leaving her fuming, and walked near the bookcase on the wall, "I don't waste my time and I'm already here. It's obvious I want to buy it." He looked at the literature on the shelf, and grimaced at the thick layer of dust that collected it. Splotches of paint replaced the wood, leaving Vegeta quizzical. "Titian, Raphael, Michelangelo. I see the last tenant was a fan of the Renaissance pieces."

"Perhaps," Bulma squint her eyes at him curiously, before shaking her head. She was used to Yamcha asking "Who's that babe?", even when she assumed that _everyone_ should know those painters at least. But Vegeta was no Yamcha, it seemed. Of course someone of his fine musicianship had a broad knowledge of various arts.

"Do I get to keep the artwork too?"

"W-what?" Bulma was pulled out of her trance as she regained sight on Vegeta again. He was staring at her now, annoyed.

"The pieces of art," he pointed down to the various canvases that lined the walls, "I want to know if they come with the apartment."

"Oh!" Bulma hurried to one of them, trying frantically to turn them around. "Don't pay attention to those…" she clumsily knocked one over, adding to her anxieties. Her father _really_ should have told him not today. "These stupid things aren't for sale, not that anyone would buy them."

"Why not?" Vegeta looked offended at her words, glaring at her as if she were incompetent. "I assume the current leaser isn't coming back for their items. It looked like they've already ravaged through the good things. The paintings aren't _that_ great that you'd want to hang on to them."

Bulma let out an exasperated sigh as she chuckled in disbelief. Vegeta watched her with confusion. Apparently he had touched a nerve, but he wish she wouldn't be so sensitive. He was willing to buy everything at this point and save them the trouble if she would let him sign the damn papers already.

"You are a piece of work," she let out before standing up straight, her chest out and shoulders perched back. " _I'm_ the current leaser here, okay? And these paintings aren't for sale because they're _mine_."

"As in you painted them?" He didn't believe her, or rather he didn't _want_ to. Then he'd be forced to give a compliment, and he'd rather do _so_ many other things than stoop to that level of gratitude.

"Yes I painted them! As it so happens, this was supposed to be my own art studio, but…" she looked off in the distance, staring out of the large square-tiled windows. The purple sky cast shadows on the side of her face and Vegeta took in how sad she looked in that moment. She blinked away whatever it was and sighed. "Things happen. And we can't let it stay without an occupant while we pay for an empty space so that's where you come in."

He nodded and looked around the space again. It looked like it was used for a shoe factory instead of a home, but it _was_ perfect for what he needed to do. High ceilings that domed overhead, spacious without a lot of wall dividers, windows that doubled as walls themselves. It was the perfect recipe for someone to play their hearts out, and he knew finding another spot would be troublesome.

The paint splotches continued throughout the apartment, and for a moment Vegeta imagined how many nights she had spent in here working on her pieces. He looked at them again, the fine detail that she spent in perfecting skin tone. The light wisps of color that seemed almost angelic, ethereal. She was _very_ talented; just looking at one alone made a melody itch the sides of his brain and he knew that he would soon have to sit down to write it out. He wondered why she hadn't taken off on her own as an artist yet. He knew of the Briefs, of Capsule Corporation. He knew who she was as soon as she said her last name, but he knew nothing of _her_. Why live in the shadows of someone else's gift when you had your own to behold? The thought was maddening.

"So?" She brought him out of his thoughts, and he looked at her. "Are you interested?"

"I suppose. It would make a nice place for my music."

"Oh!" Her face lightened as he mentioned that and he didn't miss it. Curiosity tickled him as he wondered what had changed her mood, but thought better than to ask. "Are you planning on living here or using it as a studio?"

"Both."

"Really? I thought you were a penthouse kind of guy, not urban/industrial studio man. Is there a reason, or-"

"That's none of your concern." He cut her off sharply and turned to face her completely. "I didn't come here for an interview, I came here to look at the place to see if I like it. And now I want to buy it, so can I sign the damned papers and be on with it, or do you want to play another round of twenty questions?"

She dropped her mouth in awe, unable to wrap her head around his words. He wanted to chuckle; he never knew how entertaining it was to ruffle the feathers of _this_ bird.

"How is it even _remotely_ possible that someone that is such an _asshole_ can be so magnificent when he's conducting?! _How_!?" Her words dripped with acid and she was practically shrieking.

"If I wasn't who I am, the music would have a very different outcome. If you like it so much, then you should consider yourself lucky that I'm such an _asshole_."

"Do you even hear yourself?! It's like your some kind of different person! Up there on stage you were so…so… _regal_ and powerful! But right now you're just a _douchebag_ with a _terrible_ personality!"

"You say that like you have even the slightest clue as to who I am."

"Getting to know you seems impossible! I'm trying to close out this deal and we can't even do that without arguing."

"Then perhaps you should stop talking."

"I-!" If she were a cartoon character, Vegeta was sure that someone would draw fumes coming out of the side of her head. She took a few deep breaths and struggled to regain herself. "Listen, I don't know why you're so _impossible_ , but there's no need to bring me down with you."

"You're a grown woman capable of making her own decisions. Surely you don't have to banter with me if you choose not to."

"Whatever! I don't have the papers with me for you to sign. My father has them at his office, so you'll have to stop by there in the morning to finalize everything. I was asked to show you the place, and I did that. Satisfied?"

"Not entirely."

"Well what's the problem?" She said through practically gritted teeth, swallowing the harsh words that wanted to climb the ladder of her throat.

"This is a rather large space," Vegeta eyed the blank walls that screamed at him. "And I don't have many things to decorate them with. I would like the pieces you have here to adorn them." He clenched his jaw and looked away from her stare. "They're inspiring," he said so low that she almost didn't catch it.

Her stance relaxed them, her pink pouty lips forming into a small circle as he eyes rounded. "Inspi-inspiring?" She scratched her head and smiled lightly, just in time for Vegeta to catch it, thrown off by her light and airy voice change. "You really think so?"

"Look, I'm not here to stroke your inflated ego, Miss Briefs-" he wanted to continue on with his serpent tongue, but something in her eyes made him stop. He recognized that look; he once _wore_ that look. It was the look of someone who was insanely talented, but for whatever reason had doubts. And those doubts personified fear when others around didn't give helpful critique. He couldn't be a hypocrite to the arts; it was all he had left. He sighed as he watched he eyes dance over curiosity, waiting for him to save her faltering hope. He wasn't even at a concert, yet here he was conducting this conversation.

"I don't know what you want me to tell you, but they're good. You have a gift, and it would allow me to keep a creative space."

Her eyes shone then, as if he had brought her back to life with his words. The blues in her orbs intensified marvelously, encompassing him with their weight. They were like oceans that glittered under the mid-day sun, and for a second Vegeta wondered what it would be like to swim in them. Drown in them.

He looked away from her, but not before the heat of his cheeks flushed his words.

"Thank you," she said softly, and he saw her staring at her feet through the corners of his eyes. She looked grateful, her cheeks resembling his own. "I know I've already said it, but I think you're an amazing conductor. Watching you up there was so…surreal…and it got me in a creative mood. So there's one painting in particular you _can't_ have, and that's because it's not finished. But the rest are yours. I could show it to you when it's finished," she said meekly, like a child asking for a cookie they don't know if they'll get, and looked at him through fluffy blue lashes, "if you want. Since you'll be here and all."

Vegeta watched her from the corner of his eyes penetratingly. How had the conversation turned so quickly? First they were arguing, and now she was pretty much telling him that she would come _back_ to show him the painting? Like he was an old friend that admired her work? And why was she looking at him like that? Her lashes bounced as she blinked, her cheeks rosy from her bought of anger, her pillowed lips slightly parted…

He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. The air in the room was thickening and he didn't like it. "That won't be necessary," he said with clipped words as he moved past her, "I'll take what you'll allow me to have. Tell your father I will sign the papers in the morning at his office." He buttoned his long black coat to his neck and slipped on his gloves. He opened the door, letting a draft in and causing Bulma to shiver.

"See you around, Vegeta," she called after him, "I can't wait to see what you've done with the place."

There she was again. Making statements like she was _going_ to be coming around more often. What was her deal? Didn't she know who he was? The scar faced idiot was her boyfriend, didn't she say he filled her with horror stories? She had all but called him a monster in their initial meeting, so what did she think she was trying to do?

He signed up for an apartment, not a side kick buddy with distractingly blue hair and a loud mouth.

He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

oooOOOooo

_A/N: So thank you guys so much again from the bottom of my Vegeta filled heart! Thanks for the reviews and the messages and everything! It made me want to give you guys a little something more! I had to hold myself back from giving all the Vegebul goodness in this chapter, which of course due to plot development, pacing and the characters so far can't happen yet. But ooohhhhh I can't wait for it._

_Definitely be prepared for more concert Veggie, especially now that he's found a place of his own. I really hope you guys enjoyed this! R &R please!_

_Until next time my friends,_

_Bitchii-usa._

_PS: I know that some of the readers here may be from Tumblr, but if you're not and you want to add me and fangirl with me, feel free to follow me and I will follow back! Tumblr name is Bitchii-usa as well._


	6. Moving Backward to Go Forward

_**Concerto Six** _

_**Moving Backward To Go Forward** _

oooOooo

The lull of rain orchestrated the soundtrack to the dismal weather, the cold winter breaking slightly to produce an unusually warm day. Bulma watched cars drive by the café window in a uniformed fashion, and she found herself slightly jealous. They waltzed by her, softly splashing droplets against the square, side street window, unapologetic about their hurried motions. Everyone had somewhere to go, something to do, and she sat here waiting.

With a sigh, she glanced down at her watch again, only to be taunted by the ticking time. Yamcha had agreed to meet her at their favorite café downtown for lunch, his own way of apologizing for his lack of attention lately, and he was already teetering on the forty five minute late mark. She wasn't too entirely upset about not seeing him often, the schematics of her and her father's smart home design occupying more time than she would have thought, but at least _she_ had shown up on time. And she didn't have the luxury of having a two week vacation either.

She swiveled the phone around on the table in front of her in a full circle, her mind slowly giving way to an imaginary game of spin the bottle, before she finally broke down to texting him. In the early stages of their relationship, he had accused her of being too nagging, too clingy, even though it was _he_ who would call first and arrange dates and other outings. As such, she tried not to become too overbearing, even in moments such as these when it was her right to ask about his tardiness. She knew that he was probably resting on his last day before heading back to Vegeta's boot camp of an orchestra, but didn't she at least deserve a call?

The agony was punching her in the stomach, and she barely sucked in a breath before she realized that she was being silly. He _was_ her boyfriend, after all, and it shouldn't annoy him if she wanted to call him and locate his whereabouts. Her thumb lazily unlocked the screen and searched for his name, the familiar pink hearts and yellow faces blowing kisses flashing across the screen. Bringing the receiver up to her ear, she balanced it on her shoulder with ease, turning her head to once again watch the grey clouds paint the afternoon sky.

"Hello?" His voice was breathy and pitchy, causing her stomach to flip flop in insecurities.

"Where are you?" She chewed her bottom lip in frustration as her ears sensitively listened for the voice of another- the _feminine_ voice of another.

"Just getting some workout time in with Goku and Krillin, babe. These guys are insane, I mean I thought _I_ was obsessed with working out, but I've got nothing on them. You should see them-"

"So you're not coming!?" Her tone was hard to barricade in sweetness as the weight of his words washed over her. He had stood her up to _exercise_? She would have taken it a little easier if he was still sleeping, but he wasn't going to show up to lift _weights_?

"Coming? Coming where…" she heard the hesitation in his voice as it dawned on him. "Oh man, Bulma, I'm so sorry. I totally forgot about our lunch date today."

"We just talked about it last night," she breathed out, unable to coax the irritation dripping from her tone, "you were the one who picked the place out."

"I know, I know, babe. There's just so much going on right now, you know, with rehearsals starting back up tomorrow, and I just want to take care of my body while I got the chance to do so. You understand, right?"

She sighed into the receiver, battling the urge to either become the understanding girlfriend or the irate one.

"I'll make it up to you. Tonight even. I'll take you to that new restaurant that opened up on the north side. I heard they have incredible veal."

 _It's actually kind of dry_ , she wanted to say but she swallowed the words. Yamcha had always complained that she did too many things without him, enjoyed new adventures without bothering to call, so when she slipped up and indulged in new eateries she kept it a secret. That way she could enjoy whatever meal she desired, not even bothering to count calories like he so often did for them, and not have to hear his remarks about how many glasses of wine she ordered. "Don't you have to get up early tomorrow? If we go to that place, it'll take us at least an hour to get back home, and that's just me being nice."

He breathed heavily into the phone and she knew he was pondering. "I mean, it _is_ a little inconvenient, but I am the one who stood you up and, _gosh_ babe, I just feel terrible about it."

A child walked past the window and looked inside the small café, his eyes hungrily roaming over the various sweets at the stand behind her. His mother tried to tug him along, but he whined and pulled on her sleeve, pointing at the colorful pastries. Bulma couldn't help but smile, Yamcha's voice becoming white noise to her, as she watched the kid smile toothily in victory as he danced to the café doors. She found herself missing that sort of innocence; the one that life robs you of when you finally open the naïve veil over your eyes. She thought she found the freedom in the passionate strokes of a brush against a canvas, but now she realized that she simply hadn't taken off her veil yet.

"Bulma? Babe? You still there?"

"Yeah," she said half-heartedly, feeling her heart clench at her dismal perspective on her adult life. She was young and fortunate enough to not have to stress over money, and had a mind that knew no limitations. So why did she feel so stifled, so caged?

"So do you want to go out to dinner or not?"

Her answer was muffled as her eyes focused on a flicker of hair across the street from her view, the person briskly walking under the green and pink striped awnings to avoid the steady rain. Her gaze followed him, recognizing immediately the familiar flamed hairstyle, wondering what he was doing and where he was going. Yamcha yelled into her ear again, startling her from her thoughts, as she gathered her purse and coat.

"Sorry, Yamcha, but I don't think tonight will work. Maybe we can have brunch or something tomorrow when you get a break in your schedule."

"Are you sure? I don't want you to be upset at me."

"No, it's fine. I won't be upset, just as long as you don't leave me hanging again. "

"I promise, babe," he chuckled, pausing briefly to chat with one of the men in the background, "Listen, I'm going to have to let you go. The guys are pestering me about hurrying it up, so I'll just see you tonight. Not sure what time I'll be home, though."

"It's fine, take your time," she sauntered out of the café, her eyes searching the busy streets for Vegeta, "I'll talk with you later."

"Alright, beautiful. I love you."

"You too," she said before realizing how off putting it was. But her thumb had ended the call without her brain's confirmation, and her new quest was nagging her to continue. She would give Yamcha an acceptable excuse later, but her curiosity was bugging her now.

She wasn't one hundred percent sure as to why she had decided to follow him, creeping in shadows like an alley cat, but she found herself staying out of sight to see what he was up to. Something about Vegeta and his musical genius of a brain itched her quizzical one, and from their few conversations, it was very unlikely to her that he would be willing to share what made him the visionary that she witnessed at the concert. And considering that this part of downtown was home to the self-proclaimed artists and musicians of South City, it piqued her interest in what he found endearing over in these parts.

It wasn't hard to keep up, with his ink stained hair helping pose as her guide, and soon she found herself outside of a vintage floral shop. She snooped below the front window, pressing her back against the glass as if she was browsing the outside arrangements, all the while looking over her shoulders at him. He seemed direct in his purchasing mission, heading straight to the counter and pointing at a vase of lilies to the clerk. So he was dating someone, then? She tried to imagine the type of woman who could handle Vegeta's sharp tongue. Was she soft, like the petals of the lilies he was now handing his card over for, or was she as delicate as a razor blade? Did she whisper sweet nothings in his ear when he brought her flowers like that?

He paid for them, not bothering to even mutter a full sentence to the clerk, and made his way to the door. Bulma turned so that her back would be to his, but she underestimated just how close she was to his frame. She could practically taste the cologne that layered him as he stepped out of the shop, hearing a shuffle from his bag as he carefully protected them from the rain. When she heard the clacking of his oxfords on the cobbled pavement behind her, she slowly turned around before continuing her escapade. She felt like a sly fox readying on its prey, except hers was dark and mysterious and she wasn't convinced she should even be biting.

He walked down the cluttered street and Bulma took notice at how people seemed to move out of his way. Perhaps it was the foreboding expression that stained his face, or the way his hand was shoved in his pocket, angling his elbow like it was a self-preserved weapon, but it was as if they were trying their hardest to not bump into him.

Perhaps he was a regular in these parts, and they knew him.

He walked faster once he passed an intersection, before sharply turning into another building. This one was lavender, a cute little shop that Bulma had never paid much attention to, with the words 'NAPPA'S FINE GOODS' splattered on the white awning. There was no window readily available for her to peer into, forcing her to go inside if she still wanted to be the nosy little mouse she was becoming accustomed to. She grabbed a soggy newspaper neglected on the bench in front of the shop and entered, stuffing her face in the wet contents.

Vegeta beelined for the counter, making Bulma wonder if he ever took his time in just looking around like she liked to do, and cleared his throat loudly. The shop owner-Nappa, maybe?- approached, and as Bulma swiveled around to avoid another customer, she noticed the glow of a smile of the owners face that screamed familiarity as he drank Vegeta in.

"Mr. N'Ouija," he said, his upper lip getting lost in the thickness of his moustache, "you have great timing."

"So I take it that you were able to fix it, then?" Vegeta's voice was softer than she realized, yet deep and velvety, like the undertone of a piano key, and it made her shiver. Whenever they conversed, his words were clipped, tight. But he spoke with such an oozing amount of smoothness that she almost didn't recognize it.

"Just like you asked," the owner placed a velvet cloth on the glass counter and sat a gold necklace on the surface. Vegeta hunched over it, studying it closely. She watched him run his fingers over the chains, delicately like he was stroking a newborn bird, and nod his head in subtle approval. So he _was_ dating someone. And he had purchased his lover flowers and a necklace. Bulma never pegged him as the romantic type, but her eyes saw what she could only confirm as gestures of affection.

"This will suffice. How much do I owe you?"

"Vegeta…" the husky voice quieted with familiarity, spiking Bulma's already heightened attention. "You know that I can't charge you for this."

"How much, Nappa?" Vegeta's voice tightened.

The older man sighed, tracing the curves of his moustache. "I don't feel right making you pay for this. She'd kill me if she knew."

"Well she isn't here right now, _I_ am. So how much? If you don't answer, I'll leave an absurd amount on the counter and consider our business finalized, both now and in the future."

Nappa stared at Vegeta with hardened eyes. Bulma couldn't believe it. This nice man was _offering_ his services for free, and Vegeta was still being so cold towards him?

"Fine. Fifty dollars."

"That's underpaying."

"What do you-" Nappa realized his tone was carrying and he quieted it, looking around to make sure he didn't disturb any of the other customers. He hunched over, whispering close to Vegeta as his palms pressed on the glass. "What do you want from me, huh? Fifty dollars is more than enough for this, so don't make this harder on me then it already is."

Vegeta stared back at him for a moment, growling low in his chest before taking the money out of his wallet and placing it in Nappa's hand. The exchange was tense, and Bulma couldn't help but wonder about the scenario. Why was his lover so adamant about him not paying, according to Nappa, and why was Vegeta so insisting that he did?

"I have to use your restroom, Nappa," Vegeta's words cut through her thoughts.

Nappa reached down and produced a key before letting up the wooden table that separated the front of the shop from the back. Vegeta coolly walked through, his tense back muscles constricting even under his thick black coat. When he was out of sight, Bulma decided to investigate a little further.

She approached the counter with her finger to her lips, browsing her blue eyes over several pieces of jewelry and antiques as if she was a potential customer. "Excuse me," she called out to Nappa, planting a smile on her lips.

"Oh, well, hello there miss," Nappa leaned his weight on his elbow, his eyebrow raising in her direction, his voice seeping with flirtation, "and just how can _I_ help _you_ today?"

Bulma laughed uncomfortably, not wanting to break her false character. "Well, I was hoping to buy a gift for my sister in law, on behalf of my brother. He wants me to get her the perfect necklace, but he wants it to look like it came from him. Now normally I'm flashy with my pieces, but he's more into the antiques."

"Then you've come to just the right place, miss….?"

Bulma hadn't thought of that. Sometimes, she forgot that her picture could be easily recognized to those that were into the sciences. Being in a more artsy platform gave her a sense of anonymity, but one name drop would ruin that. "Tights. My name is Tights."

"Ahh, an odd but beautiful name, just like its owner. I have several pieces behind the counter that would fit a _woman_ of your tastes," he bent over to grab some chains, "and lucky for you, I have a sale going on today."

"Well, actually, I was eyeing the one that the gentleman had, the one who just went back there. I assume he was purchasing it for his girlfriend, so I figured I would take the cautionary leap of faith."

Nappa's face evened out as he met hers, the flirtation in his eyes flickering out like a neglected candle. "That chain is a one of a kind piece, and I only made it once."

"You made it? How talented of you. You must know his girlfriend very well to design such a marvelous chain."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Miss Tights, and if you did, you wouldn't be asking that sort of question while he was still around. And I've got the funny feeling that you know it isn't for his girlfriend."

Bulma caught her breath, feeling the persona of her charade dying out. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Look, you're not the first and you probably won't be the last of these groupies of women that lust after the man," Nappa pointed a thick thumb in the back area of the shop, "but like I tell the rest of them that come in here, if he aint interested, then he aint interested. And you mingling in affairs that got nothing to do with you won't help your case. Now normally, I'd make a spectacle of you and call him back here to let him know what you're up to, but because you're gorgeous and all, I'll let you out of here with a warning: Vegeta has no place in that cold heart of his for any type of woman right now, and the only woman that lives there isn't going away no time soon. So get over yourself, and find someone who might be remotely interested." The fire came back to his eyes at his suggestive words as he wiggled his eyebrows at her. She shook her head at him.

"Look, I don't know what you _think_ I'm doing, but I was just curious-"

"Nappa, you're out of towels."

Bulma turned away suddenly, making a direct exit for the door at the sound of Vegeta's voice. Her heart pumped at the almost-catching of her, and she moved to the nearby alley to catch her breath, the rain soaking her hair. Just what _was_ she doing, following him around like a madwoman? All she had wanted to do was to see what made him tick, what inspired him, what shops he frequented, _anything_ to break the ice of the man that held her unspoken admiration. She hadn't expected a lecture from some bald guy in an antique shop.

And she certainly hadn't expected to be presented with the sudden need to know more about Vegeta's personal life.

She heard the bells of the shop door open and peeked over the edge of the bricked alleyway wall. Vegeta was standing there, his hands stuffed in his pockets, the bouquet of lilies dangling under his arm. He stared straight into the distance, appearing to be studying the cars as they rolled past him, as the rain made its home in his thick hair. Bulma watched him with a perched eyebrow-just what was he doing now? Was he waiting for someone?

Bulma believed she had her answer. A woman was approaching, the heels of her red pumps playing music against the pavement, her cherry red curls bouncing on her shoulders. Her face was pressed tightly into a scowl, just the kind of woman that Bulma envisioned Vegeta would be into. But Nappa had said that Vegeta had no time for _any_ sort of woman, so did that make her a groupie?

The woman walked towards Vegeta as he turned to look at her. She smiled briefly at him and he nodded, his eyes narrowed slightly as she parted her lips to talk.

"Haven't seen you around here in a while, Vegeta."

He shrugged his shoulders as he resumed his gazing off into the distance. "I've been busy."

She looked down at the ground, awkwardly kicking at one of the pebbles that decorated the side street, and nodded. "I've heard. Nappa tells me that you're making quite the impression on the music scene. I haven't had the chance to come out to a concert of yours, but I'm proud of you."

"You don't need to come. It isn't necessary."

"I figured you'd say that, but I will come see you play." She wiped her nose and looked off into the same distance he was looking at, the frizz of her curls battling the rain. "I remember you used to play all the time back then. It seemed like she never stopped talking about you, even to the point where I got jealous. She always said you would be something great and I'm glad you did." She turned back to Vegeta, her eyes locking on the bouquet nestled under his arm. "Are those for her?"

He turned his head slightly so that he could look at her, his eyes cold. "Don't you have work to do?"

"Of course." She smiled, although Bulma could tell that it was made of porcelain, and cupped her hands behind her back. "Well, it was good seeing you Vegeta. You should come visit us more often, Nappa really misses seeing you."

He didn't answer her, instead watching her small frame enter the shop behind them. She turned again briefly to give him a phantom smile again, eventually turning in to the shop.

Bulma watched the entire exchange with a curious mind. She was hoping to grab some answers on this makeshift voyeurism, but instead she was left with a boiling pot of questions. Vegeta turned in the opposite direction and began to walk, his shoes louder than the splash of rain ricocheting from car tires. She gave him a good distance before emerging from her hiding corner herself, looking briefly in the shop to see the red haired woman again. She was discussing something with Nappa, wringing out her curls and looking pretty sad. Bulma turned from the exchange and continued her suit of Vegeta, careful to not be seen and even more careful to not drown in her own thoughts about the entire ordeal.

oooOooo

Vegeta had nowhere interesting to go after that, only stopping by a newsstand for a sandwich and Coke, and Bulma was growing tired. She imagined that he would lead her into various music shops, art supply stores, even the library, _somewhere_ other than just leaving his footprints in the downtown area.

The streets were ending just ahead of him, their cobblestones transitioning into luscious green grass. The rain was falling impossibly harder, making her vision blind from the wetness and wind. She had it now; Vegeta carried around secrets in the inner linings of his mouth so that only he could taste them. It probably explained why he never talked, lest he spilled them everywhere.

She was about to turn and call a cab to take her back to the café, her expedition taking her far longer than she initially planned, but then Vegeta abruptly stopped. She was lingering behind a tree, his back to her, when he began to speak into the wind:

"I know you're back there."

Her breath hitched in her throat. Was he talking to her? Impossible. Other than the almost slip up at Nappa's, she had done an impressive job at being inconspicuous. Or so she thought.

He turned around, the rain running down the sharp angles of his jaw, and she realized to her dismay that he was staring in her direction.

"Behind the tree. You're not that slick, Bulma."

Yikes, so she had been caught.

Reluctantly, she emerged from the tree, pushing the wet bangs from in front of her eyes. She gave him a lopsided grin, one that apologized and admitted her deception at once. His gaze was hard, his eyes the color of midnight, his lips unmoving. She wondered if she should move closer to him, perhaps explain to him what she had been doing all along. From his expression, it seemed pointless. So she asked the only thing that seemed appropriate:

"How did you know I was back there?"

Vegeta chuckled, the you-can't-be-serious undertone clearly lacing through his laughter, and shook his head. He stroked the sides of his jaw with his thumb and index finger. "No one in this entire city, and I'm willing to bet planet, has hair color the shade of the ocean. And on a day like today, you stick out like a sore thumb. I noticed you back at the floral shop."

"Oh." She looked down at her pathetically wet feet and felt their pain. So she _hadn't_ been sly at all. She was a fool. "Are you upset?"

"Am I upset? You're asking me if I'm upset that you followed me around for almost an hour and fifteen minutes? What the hell do you think?"

"I'm sorry," she said softly, innocently running her eyes up to meet his, "I was just curious."

"About?"

"I don't know, you, I guess." She sighed and used one arm to shield her face from the rain, squeezing her elbow with the other. "I just wanted to see if you were doing something musically related. Maybe provide some insight into the man that I saw that night."

"The man that you saw that night," he repeated her words, his tone full of mockery, "what are you? A child?"

"No!" She knew she was wrong, especially now for getting caught, but the last thing she wanted was to deal with his condescending words. "It's just that you're so private and not very talkative, and I was hoping to do some research."

"Oh? So you're a reporter now?"

"No, not for an article. For a…" she looked at him, her face relaxing as she chewed over her next set of words, "It's for a painting I want to finish."

He didn't respond, instead watching her under a careful gaze, making her feel uncomfortable. The only sounds that blanketed them were the loud slaps of rain against cobblestone, an awkwardness sleeping between them. He looked down at the bouquet in his hands, not bothering to meet her face.

"Go home, Bulma. Go home to your simpleton of a boyfriend and tell him he'd better be on time for rehearsal tomorrow. Or better yet, go to _my_ apartment and clean it out so that I can move in by the end of the month." He turned from her then, leaving her bewildered. Was that all he was going to say to her?

"Vegeta," she called out to him, fighting against the loudness of the rain, "where are you off to? The thing is, I've really got nothing to do, and I figured since I came all this way, maybe you'd like some company."

His back did not move and neither did his lips. She wondered if she had crossed the line, but she hadn't gained anything from her trip following him. The least she wanted was a chance to talk to him and figure him out, even if it was only slightly.

"You're a talented painter," he said aloud finally, "and your perception is remarkable. But even with that gift, you still can't see where you're not wanted." He paused, and for a second she braced herself for more hurtful words. "Go home," he said before walking ahead, this time not turning back.

She watched his silhouette until it faded in with the scenery of the trees, his figure hiding in the thick of the fog. Her eyes spotted something white and she looked on the ground, spotting a neglected lily. She walked over to it and picked it up, letting her fingers delicately roam over the silken flower. Something inside of her told her that he hadn't meant that; that for a second he was considering asking for company, even if it was just hers. There was something lonely about Vegeta, something isolated and sad, but a sturdy wall blocked away those emotions, letting the man hide behind scowls and harsh words.

But Bulma had seen differently. And even if no one else wanted to admit it, not Chi Chi and certainly not Yamcha, Vegeta was more than hushed whispers among his orchestra. He was more than stoicism and privacy. There was no way that someone so closed off could create something as so beautiful as the music she heard that night.

And as she tucked the lily into the pocket of her coat , carefully protecting it so that it didn't smush, she vowed to herself that she would make even him see it, too.

oooOooo

_A/N :_

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed, liked, followed and favorited this story. You guys have been the best part of my year so far, you have no idea and I'm so grateful that you guys enjoy this story! I hope this chapter wasn't too boring, it was something I had envisioned in my head since I decided to turn this into a fic._

_I won't drabble, so as always, please R &R my friends! Until next time!_


	7. Rehearsing and Reversing

_**Concerto Seven: Rehearsing and Reversing** _

_**A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating this! Between Smutfest (my story Oracular Spectacular is up and finished, but more on that later) and Tumblr prompts, I've been a busy gal. But now here we are with the latest chapter! I usually save my Author's Notes for the end, but I wanted to touch base on something before we start. In response to a review (and I don't know if any of the other readers feel this way) but I am VERY much aware that the Bulma portrayed here is slightly OOC. There's a reason for that, in terms of character development, but no sense in spoiling that, now is there? ;) And please understand, to those of you who are not hip to OOC Bulma, this is an AU story, which means that characters may or may not portray their DBZ counterparts. So if that's not your jam, then this story may not be for you. But if you're willing to take this ride with me, then without further ado, I present Concerto Seven.** _

_oooOooo_

Even if his body was protesting being awake so early, Vegeta always relished being home in the theater, the comfort of rosin smells and the tuning of instruments welcoming him.

He was in a bad mood today, no thanks a certain blue haired woman who _dared_ to follow him around like it was some insane scavenger hunt, and his fingers itched to leave his irritation at the podium. His nerves were jittery, and the only solace that he would find would be to bathe in the music.

The members of his orchestra were not up to their best, he discovered, as most of them were slumped down in their chairs, their mouths filled with yawns and unspoken complaints, and Vegeta growled as he watched them all from the hallway of the rehearsal room. Ingrates, the lot of them. Here he had spent his two weeks off slaving away over blank pieces of paper, scrambling through the chaos of his mind to write the _perfect_ symphony for his upcoming spring musical, and they had the audacity to pile into the room and comment about how they couldn't wait until they could crawl back into their beds. It made his teeth grit with anger, and he swallowed before he approached them. His temperament reflected how well the entire rehearsal would go, and he would not hold himself responsible for his piece turning into a trainwreck.

"Goodmorning, Vegeta!"

He closed his eyes tightly and sighed at the voice approaching him from behind. It was cheerful; a complete contrast to the sleepy vibe of the persons ahead of him, and he really didn't know if it bothered him fully or not. Nonetheless, he turned around to greet the ever bubbly Goku, who was carrying his bass under his left arm with ease, his mouth stretched into an impossible smile.

He nodded to the friendly man, the most he could muster without being insulting, and turned back to the group. Goku walked to his side and took a deep breath, smiling at him in pleasantries. "Feels good to be back, doesn't it?"

Vegeta grunted, hoping the gesture would cease the conversation all together.

"Yeah, I know," Goku continued, unperturbed (as always) by Vegeta's lack of communication, "I thought I would just _die_ if I didn't get back here. I mean, being with my family is awesome and all, but I feel so out of place without the bass in my hands. And Chi Chi doesn't want me playing during the day when Gohan is napping," Goku rubbed the back of his head and chuckled, making Vegeta growl in impatience. He hated the way Goku name dropped members of his family like Vegeta knew them personally, or even gave a shit for that matter. Like they were friends. The absurdity.

"So anyways, did you write something challenging for us?" Goku looked at him with a giddy expression on his face, his hands squeezed into fists of excitement. "The last concert _really_ pushed me to my limits and it was _amazing_! So I really hope you outdid yourself this time."

"Are you always this chummy so early, Kakarot?" Vegeta glared at him from the side of his eye, his impatience with the conversation showing in the disapproving lines around his mouth.

Goku shrugged. "I guess, I mean it's hard to be blue when you've got a toddler running around. And for the _last_ time, Vegeta, it's _Goku_. Say it with me…?" His mouth finally curved into a frown, his hand looping to urge Vegeta to repeat him. Vegeta stared at him with the expression of a brick, his stance on the matter firmly cemented. Goku sighed, repositioning his bass and taking steps forward. "There's just no changing your mind, is there? . Well, you can make it up to me by giving me a really hard solo. And I mean _really_ hard. I've been practicing the violin and going up several octaves, so if you want you can write me something for that!"

Vegeta shook his head as he watched Goku enter the rehearsal room, striking conversation with Krillin and Yamcha. Vegeta would never admit it out loud, _especially_ not to the man himself, but he respected Goku for always rising to the various challenges he put him through and passing with flying colors. But even through the respect, something was bothering him. And it came in the form of the scar faced man that Goku was speaking to. There was no way he could even look at Yamcha without thinking of that nosy woman who overstepped her boundaries. He snarled and finally entered the room, cutting daggers in Yamcha's direction.

"What's his problem?" Krillin whispered, covering his mouth with his hand. "I know it's early, but _he's_ the one who set the time. The least he could do is set an example for us."

"I don't even know," Yamcha watched Vegeta carefully out of the corner of his eye, frowning as he realized he was the target of Vegeta's irate glare, "but he's giving me the creeps. Let's just hope he doesn't take it out on the rehearsal. I'll bail, if he does. I'm sure I can occupy my time with Bulma instead of being the victim of a grown man's tantrum."

"Oh, he's fine guys!" Goku smiled reassuringly, putting his palm in the air as a sign of peace, "I just had a good conversation with him. I think that he's got something big for us, and he's probably just nervous if we'll like it or not."

"I wish I could have that same naïve outlook as you, Goku," Krillin sighed, "because something tells me it's not as easy as that."

"What do you mean?" Goku blinked at him with innocence and ignorance. Krillin opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by the loud tapping of Vegeta's baton against his black metal stand.

"Enough chit chatter!" His voice boomed in the high ceiling room, his face serious, his lips pressed tightly together. "We have business to attend to this morning. So get those lazy bones working and behave like proper members of _my_ orchestra."

Groans settled over the musicians, several of them mumbling curses towards Vegeta under their breaths, and Krillin and Yamcha tossed Goku an 'I-told-you-so' look before grabbing their instruments and heading to their assigned chairs. Goku stood, picking up his bass and walking to his stand, leaning against the wood of his tall instrument.

Vegeta let his eyes scan the room over each pupil until he was satisfied. He cleared his throat, raising an eyebrow at them that spoke a thousand words, and many of them recognized that look and straightened their posture, taking deep breaths to swallow their sharp tongues. Finally, he was pleased at what he saw. A group of men and women musicians who looked ready and capable to handle what he was going to pass out.

"Very well, then," he said, picking up his briefacase and removing several stacks of sheet music, "while many of you were probably filling your belly and lounging about during the vacation, _I_ was working on hard on making our next musical a successful one."

"Umm, excuse me, Vegeta?" A short man in the second row of violins raised his stubby arm, trying to elongate it so that Vegeta could see him properly.

"What is it, Chiaotzu?" Vegeta sighed in irritation, hating to be interrupted.

"Well," Chiaotzu replied in that irritating squeaky voice of his that Vegeta hated, "I was talking with Tien over the break, and he said something about this concert being really important? Like _Broadway_ important?"

Vegeta clenched his teeth and raked his eyes over to the cello section, landing them firmly in the face of the first chair cello player. Tien stalked his gaze away timidly, not being comfortable with Vegeta's stare.

"Well," he said, his tone dripping with venom, "if you two spent as much time practicing over the break as you did gossiping, then I'm sure you would have a lot more accomplished. Like Chiaotzu _finally_ making first chair." He watched as the short man's eyes widened at the insult and he sulked back in his chair. Vegeta was sure that he had colorful words stored in his puffy red cheeks, although he didn't dare speak it. Something inside of him felt bad. Chiaotzu was a nice man who played to the best of his abilities, but Vegeta did not believe in coddling. His way was old fashioned, and he truly felt that no one got anywhere without a little tough criticism as motivation. "Does anyone else want to chit chat about things that may or may not happen in this musical?" The adults were silent, not wanting to be cut by his sharp words. "Good," Vegeta nodded, separating the sheets into different sections and passing them out to the instrument groups. "All you need to know is that this concert is just as important as _any_ other concert, and you all need to treat is as such. As far as any broadway rumors go, you should be playing like you are always on stage. And you should rehearse like you're always auditioning. That's all I have to say on the matter."

The papers were passed out, and each player looked to their stand to go over their selections, raking their eyes over the whimsical notes that Vegeta carefully placed on the bars. Goku stretched his arms in the back and yelped gleefully, slamming his hand on the top of the bass. Vegeta watched him with a stern expression, waiting for the man to make eye contact with him.

"Oh, sorry, " Goku smiled, "but I see that you gave me a wicked solo! And all these note progressions and octaves in the middle of a triplet? I'm gonna have to work extra hard to complete this! I'm pretty excited, Vegeta!"

Vegeta nodded stiffly, although he was very pleased on the inside. It was good to see that _someone_ would appreciate his hard work. The rest of the musicians' faces were buried into the sheets, their expressions tainted with confusion and hatred. He chuckled at how easily they were to give up. What did they think, that he was going to compose an elementary style piece? That he would let their bows dance to the melody of _Canon in D_? Absolutely not. He was Vegeta, not Beethoven, and he would challenge them until they made a name for themselves _and_ for him.

He turned to his side and flipped on the bar to his metronome, a steady sound of clicking washing over the room. He raised his baton in the air to gather their attention. "I'm willing to bet that no one has touched their instruments at _all_ during break, so let's begin with some scales. And I don't want to spend an hour on this, so make it easy on yourselves and get it right the first time." He watched their faces lock into his, and smirked at them, bringing his hand down smoothly. "And a-one, and a-two…"

oooOooo

After twelve grueling hours of rehearsal, the musicians sluggishly packed away their instruments, many of them relaxing in their seats and stretching their aching back muscles. Vegeta watched them all with his hands stuffed in his pockets, frowning. While rehearsal had gone well for the most part, a part of him worried that many of them wouldn't be able to handle his genius of a piece, and he had no time to spare in training the professionals. Aside from Goku and a few others, they were _struggling_. And Chiaotzu was telling the truth, this spring concert _would_ be important because the head of the music department for Broadway would be coming to see them. But telling them that would get them too excited, and they would overthink their playing, and he didn't want that. He wanted them to play naturally so that they didn't fail, so that when the time came they would breathe the notes through their skin as if they had been born to play it. But now, he wasn't sure that they would even make it to the concert in one piece.

He growled, leaning against the wall in the hallway, a red curtain almost drowning him in the shadows. He needed to get to his office to concentrate. The more he stared at them, the more irritated that he was becoming. And that would ultimately get them nowhere.

"Yamcha!" A sugary voice called from the doorway to the rehearsal room, and Vegeta's ears tingled with familiarity, his fingers twitching against the fabric lining of his pocket. He extended his neck slightly to gaze over the tiled wall into the large room, and his eyes narrowed as they gazed over a woman entering through the door, carrying a drink and brown paper bag.

 _Bulma_.

He scowled as he watched her enter, her expression as bright as her obnoxious blue hair, and he hid in the shadows so as not to be seen by her.

"Hey babe!" Yamcha replied, wrapping his arm around her waist and kissing her cheek. She giggled in a teenage way that sickened Vegeta, and yet he couldn't tear his eyes away from the scene.

"I brought you dinner," she said, looking at him with complete adoration as she handed him a bag, "I figured you'd be starving and I was in the neighborhood, so I decided to just drop it off to you."

"You're so sweet, babe!" Yamcha smiled at her and grabbed the bag with an appreciative hunger, kissing her on the cheek again. Vegeta watched as he looked in the bag, his smile fading into something dismal. "Bulma…" he said softly, trying to contain his confusion, "what's this?"

"A meatball sub!" she said giddily, throwing her hands behind her back, "I picked one up from the deli across the street. Chi Chi told me that they were _really_ good and saucy, and after having one myself, I knew you had to try it!" There was a proud reassurance under her words, and Vegeta called her a fool for not being aware to Yamcha's disapproval over her words.

"You…you _ate_ one of these?" he asked her incredulously, looking at her as if she had three heads.

Her smile faltered as she studied his face, resting her hands on her hips. "Yeah, so what if I did? It was good and I don't regret it."

"Babe," Yamcha balled up the paper bag in his hands, sandwich and all, and tossed it into a garbage can nearby, "do you know how _fattening_ these are? The sauce alone probably carries so much sugar! I'm surprised you're still able to walk around after eating that. And what's this?" He looked at her drink container, a pink shake of some sort and took a sip, grimacing. "Is this a strawberry milkshake?"

"You love strawberry milkshakes, Yamcha! What the hell is with that face?"

"Nothing," he sighed, gripping his nose with his thumb and index finger, "it's nothing. I just want to watch how much dairy and sugar I consume, and you should too, babe. Tell you what," he smiled and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her closer, "how's about I take you to this vegan spot down the street? I heard they make an amazing zucchini pasta that I've been dying to try. What do you say, my favorite girl?" He nuzzled up to her ear and whispered something, making Bulma blush and giggle, clearly forgetting his small tantrum at her token. Vegeta scoffed, disappointed. There was no way in absolute hell he would _ever_ allow that to happen to him, nor would he do that to someone he called his girlfriend. He shook his head at the thought, reminding himself why he hadn't bothered to have one of those in the _first_ place.

"Okay, okay!" She pulled away from him flirtatiously, blinking at him through her thick lashes, "we can go. I guess I'll try these soodles or doodles—"

" _Zoodles_."

"Yeah, those. I just, umm…" she looked around the room as the musicians spilled out of the door, appearing slightly uneasy. Something told Vegeta that he needed to bail, but her next words hit him in the face with a forceful slap, "Is Vegeta here?"

"Yeah," Yamcha cocked an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes, "he hasn't left yet. Why?"

"Oh, well," she bit her lips and Vegeta could tell she was lying, " I just have to talk to him about something really quick. About the property. Where can I find him?"

"Oh yeah, that's right," Yamcha smacked the middle of his forehead with his palm, calling himself an idiot by the signs of the gesture, "I forgot about this whole property business. He should be in his office, he's usually here long after we're gone from what I'm told," he pointed a stupid thumb in the direction of Vegeta's hiding spot, and Vegeta called him several obscenities as he tried to leave the area.

"Thanks, Yamcha," Bulma leaned in and pecked his lips lightly, pressing her nose to his, "it won't take long. I'll meet you outside?"

At that, Vegeta turned quickly, thinking he could make it through the private exit through his office before she had a chance to catch up to him.

But of course, he was wrong.

"Vegeta!" she called after him, and he scowled as soon as he heard his name spill from her lips with want. Goddamn her. He stopped in his tracks, his hands angrily stuffed in his pockets still, and swallowed roughly while clenching his teeth.

"What do _you_ want?" he asked, not even bothering to turn around.

"Well, I, uh," her feet made small clacking noises as she rounded him, and he took a deep breath as she appeared to his front, her face seemed determined for him to listen to whatever she had to say. He refused to look at her, however, choosing to instead stare straight ahead to a poster in front of his office door, a little girl playing the tuba with sunglasses looking back at him. "Listen, I just _really_ wanted to say how sorry I am about yesterday. I was out of line, and I realize that now, but at the time I just wasn't thinking."

He remained silent, his eyes still pressed forward, the vein in his neck throbbing. She sighed, looking around the floor as if searching for something, before peering at him under her lashes, looking as innocent as a schoolgirl. "I know you're really upset with me, and I really don't blame you, but with Yamcha and the property, I _really_ don't want there to be any bad blood between us. So whadya say?" She extended her arm, raising her head up as she confidently smiled at him, her fingers positioning to be intertwined. "Can we start over? Or at least just be on the same common ground?"

He looked at her hand with a stoic expression, his eyes slowly sliding up her arm to her face before finding his cold irises found home in her warm ones. She appeared a little unnerved by the intense stare, and he saw her swallow hard before regaining her composure. He clicked his teeth.

"You've got some nerve," he bit at her after what seemed like a life time of silence, "marching into _my_ theater like this and giving me some unwanted apology. After you practically stalked me yesterday—"

"I didn't stalk you, " her brow lowered and she looked taken aback at the accusation, "Okay so maybe I _did_ follow you around-"

"- _without_ my consent,"

"Well, yeah, sure but-"

"And that is the _literal_ definition of stalking."

She pouted, lowering her arm and staring at him with a gasoline fire swimming in her eyes. " _Look_ , I'm trying to apologize here and be the bigger adult. I didn't mean to stalk you, nor did I have any intention on doing so, but either way it wasn't cool. And I'm _sorry_ , okay? I was just curious about you, and it's not like talking to you gets me anywhere."

She looked at him for several tense seconds as if she expected _him_ to apologize for that. He didn't owe her anything, and it really annoyed him that she was parading around here like he _did_. Finally, he clicked his teeth and repositioned his gaze elsewhere, anywhere but her dainty little face.

"I do not want nor need your weak apology," he said with venom, "something tells me that this won't be the last time you make an utter fool of yourself, so you'd best save those words for a better deserved occasion. You seem like a woman who is constantly making a fool of herself."

"Excuse me!?" She roared, looking around after she finished yelling to make sure that she wasn't heard. She looked back at him with her head low, her cheeks red as irritation danced on her skin, and breathed deeply to quiet herself. "Who the hell are you to say that kind of shit to me, huh? I'm getting _really_ tired of you talking to me like that."

"Oh?" He laughed mockingly, looking at her again, "You're _tired_ of me talking to you like that?"

"You're damn right I am!"

"Funny," he stroked his chiseled chin, his top lip curling over his teeth in amusement, "I thought you _loved_ for a man to disrespect you with his words and actions. That ties in well to my whole 'you make a fool of yourself' sentiment."

"What the fuck are you talking about!?" She rose her arms in disbelief, and Vegeta snorted at how much she resembled a goal post.

He nodded his head toward the rehearsal room, his eyes locked squarely with hers. "That little display between you and that pathetic excuse of a man you call your partner back there. It was utterly embarrassing to watch. Even more so that you're _still_ agreeing to dinner with him."

"You _saw_ that?" She dropped her arms to her sides, a pink tint of humiliation playing over her skin tone, and she lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper, "you were watching us from behind here?" She shook her head and crossed her arms, looking off to the side. "And you have the nerve to talk about me." Her fingers drummed her forearms as she pursed her lips.

"For your information," he leaned down so that she could hear every bite of his bark, "I didn't _choose_ to have you display your train wreck of a relationship in front of me. _You_ , on the other hand, followed me around like a homeless puppy begging me to adopt it. Our cases are _very_ different."

"You incredible _asshole_!" She spat, her eyes burning into him again, "You have the _audacity_ to talk about _my_ relationship when you wander around town like some caped crusader? You're a rotten low life! Train wreck of a relationship? Yamcha and I are very happy!"

"Oh, are you? Because it's _very_ entertaining to me that you choose to sit here and yell at me when you couldn't even reprimand him for being a selfish prick! Tell me, do you save the fire for the bedroom or is _that_ just as one sided as that little shit show I just witnessed, hmm?"

"I…" She became flustered as she tried to manage a comeback, but the words became lodged in the back of her throat, her frustration painted clearly on her face. Her cheeks puffed out before she swallowed the stale air, and he watched her blink away rapidly as the corners of her eyes turned red. "You're fucking impossible," she muttered, but he knew that the truth to his words had really created a weight in her belly, "absolutely fucking impossible. And to think, I thought there was something good to you. What a waste of pure talent."

Something about her words stung, and he felt himself stooping to a level that he always knew was beneath him. Vegeta normally kept his words clipped, tight. He never raised his voice to argue against someone who he did not respect, and if he did, he always managed to win the debate with a few choice words that left his contender confused. But _this_ woman was managing to creep into his skin in a way that was foreign, and he was spitting out his words before thinking them over carefully. _Very_ un-Vegeta like.

"How ironic, that the woman with no spine has the nerve to talk about _me_? You can't even stand up to something as mundane as your boyfriend's rudeness, and yet you talk about _my_ waste of talent? I'd guess…no…I'd _bet with all the money in the world_ that the very cowardice you possess is the same reason why all those paintings are sitting there collecting dust."

She whipped her head around to him, her eyes widened with shock, and he used it as fuel to his fire as he continued. "I'm willing to bet that the reason you're _hiding_ under your father's company is because you're too much of a coward to make a name for yourself. _That's_ the reason that you never made it as a painter successfully."

Bulma's face crumpled at his harsh words, her mouth hung open. She didn't blink away the tears that crawled to the center of her eyes this time, instead choosing to let them fall and stain her porcelain cheeks. She gasped, her voice full of wetness and threatening to crack, and stepped slightly backwards.

"How…how dare you?" She whispered, her lids quivering as more tears raced down her face. A slight tinge of guilt pulled tightly in Vegeta's chest, but his pride in winning this disagreement would not let him falter, so instead he watched her with a solid expression and closed lips.

She looked at him for a moment longer before making a choking sound and darting around the corner. Vegeta heard the door to the outside slam with a fierce weight, causing the echo of the action to bounce off of the walls and slap him across the cheeks. He clicked his teeth, a small inkling of regret coating his tongue, and looked down to the his feet, studying the chocolate leather of his Oxfords. _Shit_ , he spat in his mind, clenching his eyes tightly shut, _why did I stoop to her childish level_?

He ran a hand down his face and sighed, feeling the itch of needing to leave all of his problems at the piano. He walked into his office and shut the door behind him, pulling a seat up to his keyboard and letting his fingers convey the apology that he refused to say.

oooOooo

_**A/N** _

_**Ouch, pretty harsh, huh Getes?** _

_**Canon in D was my favorite to play when I played cello.** _

_**So that's it for this time folks! Oye the agony! Oye the pain! Oye the pleasure I soak in as I let this unstoppable duo experience ALL the feels!** _

_**As I was stating above, my finished piece for the 2017 February Smutfest, hosted by the Prince and the Heiress community is live! It's entitled Oracular Spectacular, and it's a sci fi piece that is COMPLETELY kid friendly!(I don't need to point out the sarcasm, do I?)** _

_**Thank you to everyone for the reviews. If you're still enjoying this story, please leave a good one! It really makes me smile in an ugly way. Also be on the lookout for all of my tumblr prompts to be combined in a story on and AO3. Working title will be 'Drabble Ball Z'.** _

_**I'll probably be working on this story for a while before I head on back to Swapped, just an fyi.** _

_**Talk to you soon friends!** _


	8. Embrace

_**Concerto Eight: Embrace** _

oooOooo

"Alright, so one more crank in the amps and that should just about do it." Dr. Briefs ran his tongue over his top row of teeth, smiling with satisfaction. After spending the past several days perfecting a robot servant for the smart home, it seemed like he had finally struck gold. He stroked his chin as he eyed the blueprints on the table before him. "Bulma," he called to his daughter, "do me a favor and crank up the amps to 1500."

"Sure, Dad," she responded, her monotone voice soft against the hum of the robot's generator. Dr. Briefs waited patiently for her to turn the machine on; his mind running over various tests he could put the bot to once enough power was supplied to make it run efficiently. After several moments had passed with no startup, he looked up with impatience, only to find Bulma standing in the corner of the room and gazing out of the window, her face mimicking the gloomy day of the outside.

"Bulma," he said, his tone stern, "I'm waiting for you to crank the amp."

"Of course, Dad," she responded immediately, almost as if _she_ was the bot that he needed to work on. Still, she made no movements away from her standing position, and he sighed and rubbed his forehead. She had been like this all day. She showed up an hour later than their agreed meet up time, and she walked around melancholy, her blue eyes swimming with sadness. At first he chalked it up to her possibly being tired, especially knowing she had gone out with Yamcha to dinner the night before, but it was unlike her to not get a spark under her butt this late in the afternoon.

He walked over to her, fumbling about in his pockets for his cigarettes, and stared off into the distance where she was looking. Some old billboard with a devilishly handsome man tossing a thumbs up greeted him, half of the worn paper ripped to shreds. He lit a cigarette, letting the smoke curl around his face.

"Your new boyfriend?" He nodded towards the billboard, his eyes resting on her cheek.

Finally she turned to him, her expression confused, before she saw what he was gesturing at. She looked back at the billboard and chuckled softly at the joke before her lips resumed their curved down frown.

"So are you going to talk to me about it, honey? Or do I need to play the guessing game like I do with your mother?"

She leaned closer to the glass of the spacious window, pressing her forehead against it but remained silent. He stared at her with iron patience, remembering how Bulma was as a teenager when something was bothering her. It would only be a matter of time before his little girl needed to talk to her father.

"Dad," she spoke as if on cue, her words as soft as the rain that pit pattered against the window pane, "what am I doing with my life?"

The words cut him, his eyebrow rising at the odd question, and he inhaled another puff of his nicotine poison, letting the answer coat his tongue. He reached into his pocket and grabbed another stick, handing it over to her. "Well, right now I think you're going to have a smoke with your old man."

She accepted it from him after staring at it for some time, as if the white paper would wrap around her fingers and bite them off, and then fumbled it flimsily between her lips, refusing to light it.

"Outside of that, Dad. What am I _doing_? I mean, working with you is fun and all, but what if I wake up one day and just regret it all?"

"Is this about the property, honey?"

"It's about everything," she sighed, turning her back against the window and leaning against it, rolling the cigarette in between her fingers now. She swallowed hard before continuing, "I just don't know what I'm doing anymore, or what my purpose even is, and that _scares_ me."

"Bulma," Dr. Briefs placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder, looking at her with concern, "Where is this coming from? Come on and _really_ talk to me about it."

She let out a deep breath and looked at him reluctantly, closing her eyes momentarily after finding home in his concerned blue irises. She found the words that were stuck in her throat, and she gathered them up with as much strength as she could muster before letting it spill out in a jumbled whisper: "Am I a _coward_ , Dad?"

Dr. Briefs removed his hand from her shoulder, staring at her as if she had just told him that she was ill, and took a long breath, stroking his thick mustache. What had transpired, he wondered, that made her feel like this?

A sliver of irritation pooled in his belly as he remembered why she had decided to stop painting in the first place, and he felt his fatherly role possess him. "What did Yamcha say to you, Bulma? Do I need to talk with him?"

"No," she shook her head rapidly, her blue hair dancing across her cheeks, "Yamcha has nothing to do with this. I mean, he _sort of_ does, but not why I asked you that question." She stopped and remembered Vegeta's words, her mind squeezing his criticism on her relationship with Yamcha with a weighted fist, and she sighed again. "Or maybe he does have a reason. I just don't _know_ anymore, Dad. My brain is just completely foggy."

"Let's see here," Dr. Briefs placed a finger on his chin, looking dramatically up at the ceiling, "Brilliant? Check. Stunning like her mother? Double check. Witty? Stubborn? Independent? Talented? Creative? Check, check and check. But what do you know?" He removed his finger and looked down, making direct eye contact with her. "All of those things and I just _can't_ seem to find cowardly anywhere on the list." He shrugged his shoulders and winked at her. "Maybe because it doesn't exist, Bulma."

She smiled lightly at him, folding her arms over her chest. "Thanks, Dad," she said with gratification, although his compliment did not really remedy the sting that Vegeta's words had wounded her with. She wasn't sure _why_ she was letting him get to her, but here she was, soaking in her own self torment. Maybe it was her admiration for his astounding talent, or maybe it was the fact that somewhere she felt as if he had called her out on her own insecurity. Either way, Vegeta had touched a nerve that had paralyzed her happiness, and she was struggling on how to handle it.

"I don't know the full story here, but I trust you'll tell me exactly what's going on in due time. But I won't feel right unless I say this to you, so I'll just spit it out," he closed his eyes as he chewed over his words, letting them marinate in his mouth until he felt they were savory enough to say. "I think Yamcha is a nice man, honey. And even though you _say_ he isn't the cause of you asking this question, I'm still bothered that you're not seeking him as a source to feel better."

Her eyes widened at the accusation, her mouth agape, but she couldn't find the words to respond. It seemed like her father was constantly throwing his opinion of Yamcha around these days, and Bulma wasn't entirely sure how much she should listen to him or not. "I know Yamcha can be… _Yamcha_ ," she said with a small cough, "but he isn't _terrible,_ Dad. He's always there when I need him."

Dr. Briefs cleared his throat, turning to stare out of the window. "I remember when your mother was pregnant with you, and we were so _excited_. At the time, I had just taken on the position as president of Capsule Corps, and my schedule was pretty demanding. I was never home, and when I was, your mother was so tired that we barely spent any real time together. Anyway, I was out of town one weekend, and I was so caught up in this upcoming contest that our company was entering. We were flying out and I'm ashamed to say it, but your mother was the last thing on my mind." He looked down at his feet and let out a chuckle that was laced with regret, shaking his head. "We got to the hotel, and we're drinking and talking about how we were going to win because _my_ invention was being showcased, when I got a phone call. It was your mother, and she sounded so _upset_. She didn't say anything other than a 'hello' and 'I love you', but when we got off the phone, I knew I had my priorities messed up. So I left that day, left the competition behind and everything just to go check on your mother. Turns out, all that was wrong was a mild case of heartburn." He laughed along with Bulma, and looked at his daughter squarely in the eye. "But she was _so happy_ to see me, and it was then I learned the true power of sacrifice. My point is, when you love someone, and I mean _truly_ love someone, they're there for you even when you don't have to say a word. Yamcha should know something is bothering you even without you having to say anything. And grueling rehearsal or not, the fact that he isn't here with you right now in your time of crisis says a lot to me. And the words aren't pretty, Bulma."

Bulma became uncomfortable as she listened to her father's lesson. She wanted to defend her long term boyfriend, call out her father by reminding him of the days when he _adored_ Yamcha, and tell him he was wrong in his assessment. But as she stood there, studying the thick frames of her father's thick framed glasses, her mind could only marinate over one thing.

Just how _right_ was Vegeta in his assessment?

The air around her became too thick, threatening to suffocate her with her jumbled thoughts. Now she had to deal with the stresses of Vegeta _and_ Yamcha. Great.

She removed her body from the wall and gathered her purse, walking towards the exit. "I've got to get some fresh air, Dad. I'm going to grab some lunch."

Dr. Briefs put out his cigarette and walked back over to his workbench, cranking the amp on the way. "Just remember what I said, honey!" he called after her, watching her walk out the door and wondering when the day when his daughter that was alive with blue fire would return to him.

oooOooo

"Thanks for agreeing to lunch," Bulma salivated as her bowl of pasta was set in front of her by the waiter, and she wasted no time in twirling her fork around in the white sauce, "I really appreciate it, Chi Chi."

"No problem," the raven haired woman replied, digging into her breaded chicken breast, "thank you for picking a place where I could bring Gohan." She watched her son run around with a toy in his hand in the play center in front of them and smiled. "It sure feels good to be able to get out of the house for once. Being cooped up with Gohan all day and only seeing Goku at night sure wears down on the psyche, I'll tell you that much."

"Mmmm," Bulma responded through a mouthful of saucy noodles, savoring the flavor that waltzed over her taste buds. "I can only imagine."

Chi Chi threw her a dazzling smile, taking a sip of her water. "Well if I had to guess, I would assume that you won't have to imagine for too much longer," she wiggled her eyebrows, "I'm sure Yamcha is just itching to get settled with you."

Bulma had to swallow a sip of her own water to keep herself from choking, and she darted her eyes anywhere but on her friend's face. She nodded, dodging the question as subtly as she could. She was thankful that Chi Chi pressed no further into the matter, choosing instead to talk about her domesticated lifestyle. Bulma listened with a patient ear, trying her best to stay focused on the much needed distraction, but her attention kept getting submerged into her own thoughts.

Bulma knew that Vegeta had a reason to call out her relationship with Yamcha. She knew that her boyfriend could be mean in some of the things he said to her, but Yamcha had always been a part of Bulma's life, and she had practically grown with him. He had been there with every success, every failure, every trial and tribulation, and he had done so with a smile on his face as he supported her. But now, as she sat in a restaurant during lunch hour with Chi Chi's words ghosting in her ear, Bulma was beginning to wonder for the first time was it even enough. She was playing it safe, just like she was beginning to realize she was doing in every aspect of her life, and the thought jolted through her with a new reawakening.

"Gohan!" Chi Chi called out to her son, the toddler running over with a red nose and puffy cheeks as tears raced down his face, "What happened?" Chi Chi fussed with the boy, picking him up and putting him in her lap as she wiped his cheeks with a tissue.

"My toy!" Gohan pouted and pointed at the play area, and Bulma turned to see a red haired child playing with the toy that Gohan had previously occupied. "He took it!"

Chi Chi looked from her son to the other boy, running her fingers through Gohan's long, ink stained hair. "Don't cry, Gohan," she coaxed him, "You go over there and tell that boy to give it back to you."

Gohan shook his head frantically, clutching to the front of Chi Chi's purple dress. "No! You, mom! You!"

Chi Chi frowned and set the boy on the ground, placing her hand on her hips. "No, Gohan, you're a big boy now! Mommy wants you to be a strong young man, and that means standing up for yourself! Now go on over there and tell him to give it back to you!"

Bulma watched as Gohan wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand and reluctantly walk over to the play area, occasionally looking back at his mother. He made a face and approached the boy, waving his hands in the air and pointing at the toy. The boy looked angry, snatching it away and holding it territorially close to his body, sticking his tongue out at Gohan. Chi Chi groaned as she studied the entire situation. "Come on, Gohan," she said lowly, "do it like your daddy and me taught you!" She glanced at the back of Bulmas head and smiled. "I know it may seem harsh, but Gohan has been dealing with bullies at the playground, and his dad and I want to make sure he learns to stand up for himself. It's hard for me to watch, but I don't want him to get so dependent on me." She sighed and averted her attention back to the matter at hand.

"No, no," Bulma replied, still watching the events unfold, "I completely understand."

Gohan was standing over the boy now, his fists clenching at his side, and Bulma could tell from the side that his cheeks were reddening with anger. She felt the table scoot as Chi Chi stood, unable to watch her son fail at this anymore. Before she could completely round the table, Gohan had snatched the toy back with a strong grip, yelling, "Mine!" as he pointed at the toy. The other child fell to the ground in a ball of tears, and Gohan pointed at him again, screaming, "No touch!"

Chi Chi sat back down, her eyes widening at her son's aggressive behavior, slightly chuckling. "Well, that's one way to do it, although I'm going to have to teach him how to do it a little more _nicely_." Gohan ran back to them, his small face stretched into a dazzling smile that rivaled his mother's, holding the toy out in front of her. "Look, mama!" He exclaimed, letting himself get scooped up by her.

"I see! I'm so proud of you!" She hugged him tightly and he giggled, waving the toy in front of Bulma now.

Bulma nodded, unable to stop the grin that stole her face. "I see, kiddo," she said, "you handled that kid pretty well!"

"He takes after his father in that way," Chi Chi sighed, shaking her head. "My little Gohan, _finally_ standing up for himself. I don't agree with the mannerisms, but I guess sometimes you gotta be a little forceful to get your point across."

Bulma froze at Chi Chi's words, her eyes darting back and forth between mother and child. It was amazing, she decided in that instant, how she had learned a valuable lesson in the form of a four year old. She swallowed her water and motioned for the waiter to come to the table, bringing out her checkbook. "Chi Chi," she said hurriedly, "I'm so sorry to book on you like this, but I _just_ remembered I have something to do. I'll treat you to lunch for this blubber of mine, and I promise I'll make it up to you."

"O…kay…?" Chi Chi watched in confusion, bouncing Gohan on her knee as she watched her friend order a to go box. "Is everything alright? You seem a little frantic."

"No, no it's not okay," Bulma said, handing over her credit card, "but I'm going to go fix that right now."

She stood and walked around the table, bending to pat Gohan on the head. "Thanks little guy," she beamed down at him, "You've just helped me out more than you realized."

Gohan giggled, leaning into his mother. "Welcome," he said, looking up at Chi Chi to be praised for his good manners.

Bulma collected her card when the food was paid for, grabbing her purse and leftovers, and rushed out of the restaurant, finally finding a solution to her current predicament.

oooOooo

Bulma was relieved that she had her epiphany around this time, knowing that Vegeta usually let the orchestra out for an hour lunch break. The theater was practically empty when she burst through the doors, but if he was anything like Yamcha had said, he would be locked away in his office.

She beelined to the door, her chest rising with every anxious breath she drew, her feet walking with much more confidence than she had earlier. She would have knocked on the door to be polite, but she wanted nothing to stand in the way of her new found mission.

So instead, she barged through the wooden door, finding Vegeta sitting at his desk and reading a letter. His eyes glossed over her wildly as she entered, her frizzy hair sticking to her lips. He hurriedly stuffed the letter in a drawer, his brows knitting together in anger.

"What the hell are you doing!?" He demanded, standing up from his chair as she marched over to him, slamming her hands on the top. "You can't just barge in my office like tha-"

"Shut up!" She said, feeling the need to clear her chest. Vegeta watched her madly, completely flabbergasted at her select words. "I have something to say to you and you need to listen!"

He didn't respond, although his eyes certainly had plenty to say as they drank her in, and she stood up straight so that she didn't lose her nerve. "What you said to me yesterday was uncalled for. Not only was it completely _rude_ , it was not factual. You had no right to talk about me, or Yamcha for that matter, and you were _completely_ out of line for calling me a coward! You don't know the first thing about me, or my relationship _or_ my art, and I won't stand for you thinking it's okay to talk to me like that!"

Vegeta pressed his lips together, taking a deep breath. "Are you done?"

"And another thing!" She continued, ignoring him and feeling her stomach tingle as she let her feelings rage on, "I don't need you or _anyone_ else criticizing what I have going on with Yamcha! _Especially_ you! You're an arrogant prick of an asshole who walks around with a stick so far up his butt that I'm surprised you don't have a hemorrhoid!"

Vegeta growled, circling his desk as his eyes danced with danger. "Who the hell are you to—"

"And how the hell am I a coward, huh? Because I'm not like _you_? Because I don't waltz around here like I'm the second fucking coming of the arts?! I'll have you know that I _chose_ to stop painting, and if you even had a _shred_ of human decency, you would ask before you assume! Some of us have _real_ problems, you know, and not just how to make sure that an instrument isn't going flat! You're a smug son of a bitch, you know that?"

"I'm only going to be insulted for so long before I -"

"And I don't care what you say, I would be _flattered_ if someone admired me the way I admire you! The only reason I took time out of my day to see what the hell you were up to is because you are a _terrible_ person with _terrible_ mannerisms! Sorry, okay, for giving a damn about why you're so talented. I'm sorry that I invaded your privacy, but all I was trying to do was, oh I don't know, _maybe_ make a friend!? Is that such a foreign concept to you!?"

"What the hell makes you think _I_ need a friend!?"

"Why would anyone want to be completely alone!? Are you that much of an asswipe!? You think it's okay to call people out and make them feel like complete shit, but when someone calls you out, it's a problem? How about a tit for tat then, huh? I think you're miserable! I think you haven't been loved enough as a child and that's why you're so cold now!"

Vegeta grit his teeth as his jaw straightened, narrowing his eyes. "You've said what you had to say, Bulma, but now you're crossing a line."

"Oh, am I?" She pat her hand over her chest as she felt the fire circle around in her chest, remembering Chi Chi's words. "So it's perfectly fine when you cross a line with me, but when I do it to you, you're _allowed_ to get upset? It's the truth! I would take total offense to you treating me like shit, but I saw the way you treated that girl outside of the antique shop! Poor woman, who _knows_ how long she's been probably fighting for your affection!"

"What the hell are you on about!?" He looked around the room in disbelief, completely thrown off by her tantrum. "What girl?!"

"You know _exactly_ who I'm talking about! You really are a shit head! You don't even want to acknowledge your own girlfriend!"

"You are _crazy_ ," Vegeta shook his head, laughing darkly, "I thought you might be a little out of it, but _boy_ are you really sliding down the scale here."

"I'm not crazy, _you're_ crazy!" She pointed an accusatory finger at him, feeling relief in letting out all of her irritation at the target source. A part of her felt like she should reserve some or Yamcha, but she was fired up and on a roll, and Vegeta was in the right place at the right time. "And I bet you if I talked to that girl, she would say the same! You talk about Yamcha, but why do _you_ go around treating women this way!? What would your mother say!? Does she know how incredibly _rude_ her son is!?"

Vegeta snarled, marching up to her with a fiery passion. "Don't you _dare_ ," he seethed through clenched teeth, "speak on her again."

Bulma struggled to catch her breath at the end of her tirade, matching the ice glare in his eyes with her own. It felt good to stand up for herself, she realized, and she understood Gohan's glee as he walked back to the table with his toy in his hand and victory in his pocket. "Did I hit a _nerve_?" She said with a mocking smile, "Get a little too _personal_ for you? What? Is this the first time someone's _hurt_ you? Well too bad! You can't just go around hurting people and not expect the same in return! My name is Karma today, Vegeta, and I'm ready to teach you a lesson!"

"You don't know _what_ the hell I know about being hurt!" He shouted in her face, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "You're absolutely right! I don't know anything about you, and you don't know a _damned_ thing about me! You march in here like a _lunatic_ because you're upset with me for pointing out the truth!? For recognizing you have actual _talent_ , and not some run of the mill 'get rich quick', Crayola on the fridge skill? You hide behind your own insecurity _for what!?_ For _him!?_ " He pointed out the door, indicating that he was speaking on Yamcha. "You have a gift to change the world and you'd rather play in the shadow of your father's glory!"

Bulma was taken aback, feeling her anger decrease as he… _complimented her?_ She had no rebuttal as she let his words soak in her. "Vegeta, that's-"

"Oh _no_ ," he said, smiling manically, "you _had_ your chance when you barged in here! And what was all of this for, huh? What did you come here for? An _apology_? Is that what you want?! Fine, Bulma! You can fucking have it so here goes!"

He turned away from her, his mood rolling off of him in waves and leaving Bulma in shock. _She_ was the one supposed to have this shining moment in victory, but now she was wondering if she _had_ went too far.

"I'm sorry for thinking you're _better_ than that shit you pulled yesterday! I'm _sorry_ for recognizing an actual talent and being disappointed in seeing it wasted! Here's my goddamned apology for looking at you _allow_ yourself to get mistreated by someone you claim to have such a high affection for! What is it with you women, huh!?" His eyes were burning red and unsettled, and Bulma could have sworn that it appeared that they were growing wet. "You have all this incredible aptitudes and you _waste_ them for a fucking asshole who wants to watch you destroy yourself! Tell me, does he control what you wear too?" He walked back to her so that he was in her face again, his stare livid. "Did _he_ tell you that he didn't want you painting anymore? It's a disgrace! You could be living and enjoying your freedom, but instead you'd rather suffer the guilt of the 'what could have beens' while you waste away behind the charade of family! I'm disgusted because you could have done better, and now you're not even here anymore and it's all because of _him!_ "

Bulma watched as Vegeta's face evened out, and as he backed away from her, she drew in a sharp breath of air. What had started out as a rant about _her_ had manifested into something else, and Bulma knew that she was no longer the target of his pain. "Vegeta," she said quietly, walking slowly to him, "what or _who_ are you talking about?"

His mouth flung open but no words came out, and he clicked his teeth and looked to the side, trying to compose himself. "Nothing," he said, his voice scratchy with emotion. He cleared his throat and tried to stop himself, but Bulma watched with awe as a lone tear threatened to escape his eye. He wiped it quickly, shutting his eyes tightly.

"It's _not_ nothing," she whispered, stepping into his personal space. She didn't know what to say, feeling the moment was too tender to drown him with her questions. A small ounce of guilt pressed down in her stomach at the realization that maybe she _had_ gone too far. And while she didn't doubt that Vegeta deserved her wrath, was he saying in his own way that he… _cared_?

He looked so broken, like a neglected pup in a litter, and Bulma was taken back to when she as a child, when she would feel so consumed with her unspoken emotions and how speaking about it was much worse than suffering in silence. And how in those moments, her mother or father would find her, caught up in a tornado of feelings, and would hug her in a wordless gesture that made her feel safe. Protected.

And so for those reasons, and for others she wasn't sure of, Bulma wrapped her arms around his shoulders and embraced him, the spiky tendrils of his flame styled hair tickling her cheeks.

He was warm, comfortably so, as she threw her body against his stiff frame, and was not surprised that he didn't move. What _did_ surprise her, however, was how he allowed her to do it.

"I'm sorry, Vegeta," she whispered against him, "I didn't mean to push you like that."

He sniffled against her hair, and she felt even more horrible that she had made the great Vegeta N'Ouija cry. He moved his arms, and she just knew that he was going to push her off of him, but instead his thick arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her in closer to him. She gasped in shock at his returned embrace, feeling herself grow hot at their proximity of his touch. His arms made her feel protected, even though _she_ was the one that was supposed to be providing the comforting. _What a strange day_ , she thought, _that I ended up here_?

She stroked her hands over his upper back and he squeezed her tighter, sighing against her cheek. In a voice smaller than a whisper, he mumbled against her cheek: "I'm sorry, Bulma."

Her eyes widened even further, as if it were even possible, and she pulled back from the close hug, although her hands were still thrown around his neck. She studied his face, looking for any trace of humor or anger in his words, but he looked at her like he meant it, his red rimmed eyes soaking her deep in the galaxy og his irises, making her feel like she was floating weightlessly.

The clock in his office ticked loudly as the silence surrounded them, matching her rapidly beating heart. He had apologized, _actually_ _apologized_ , and she was too frozen with astonishment to reply. Her eyes darted between his onyx ones, unable to formulate the words on how she felt. His arms were wrapped around her middle, hers covering his thick neck, his intense gaze speaking volumes into her that she was growing overwhelmed at. He looked at her like he had a question, and Bulma found her face leaning closer to his, the ticks of the clock ringing madly in her ears. Was it just her imagination, or was Vegeta's face _also_ inching towards hers, the question in his eyes burning with an intense hunger?

The door to the theater slammed, jolting them both back to reality. Vegeta's hands unhooked behind her back, his face returning to the stoic expression that she had become familiar with, and he shook his head as if he had woken from a peaceful slumber.

"You need to go. Now," he demanded in a low tone, refusing to look at her as he rounded his desk. Bulma felt her stomach flutter lightly as she shook her head, unable to wrap her mind around what had just happened.

"That would be best," she whispered, grabbing her purse and turning to leave. Her hand lingered on the door knob as she stood there, trying to catch her breath. Yamcha, she remembered with shame, would be out there, and she was flustered by the events that had transpired in Vegeta's office. She looked at him from over her shoulder, finding him to be sitting sideways in his chair and staring at the wall, a vein throbbing in his forehead and neck. She turned back to open the door, stopping herself from asking any further questions.

As she exited the door and closed it behind her, she leaned against it, feeling the cool wood even through her black leather jacket, throwing her head back against it and sighing. She touched her lips, wondering just what _would_ have happened if the orchestra wasn't returning. She was supposed to have felt better upon leaving, she was supposed to have had some solution to her worries.

But as Bulma stepped away from the door, she found a new weight in her shoulders and her belly, and her mind alive with more worrisome anxieties.

oooOooo

_**A/N** _

_**So here's a chapter because I'll probably be a little busy to post for a bit. Hope this makes up for it.** _

_**Thank you all for the lovely reviews! It makes me happy. :')** _

_**Okay that's it and that's all! Thank you guys x's 10000000 for everything, and please R &R if you enjoyed this chapter! Talk you soon friends!** _


	9. Baby Steps?

_**Concerto Nine: Baby Steps?** _

oooOooo

Vegeta found his control again.

Standing at his conductor's podium, his eyes running across every musician that sat patiently and anxiously awaiting his cue made him feel like he was in charge. Alive. It gave him a sense of pride that he thought Bulma had shattered when she wrapped her arms around him. When was the last time he had been held like that? Been so vulnerable? The answer was sickening and he didn't wish to dwell in it anymore than he had been already. He shook off the internal questions that subdued him over their last meeting, now a week old, and brought his hand up to start the first rehearsal of the day. He took a deep breath and brought his hand down, letting the crisp strings come alive with music.

His arm moved in a synchronized rhythm as he multitasked in looking down at his sheets and his orchestra. After spending countless hours gorging in the notes he wrote, his mind was stuffed, and it sought rest in the images of Bulma.

For the rest of his days, whether he wanted to admit to it or not, he would never forget how her eyes had pulled him in and washed him clean, a metaphor for the lake of blue that she called her irises, and it settled in his stomach in a fury of nerves and relaxation. It baffled him how he had never noticed how he could have drowned in them before, and a foreign emotion tugged at him as he wondered if Yamcha appreciated it.

 _Yamcha_.

He danced his gaze over to the cello section, locking eyes on a mop of black hair that was simultaneously studying his music sheets and looking at Vegeta for direction. He tried to hide the frown that wanted to creep on his face, but he was sure he was losing. What did Bulma see in someone like him, he wondered? His mind raced in scattered fury, just in time for Goku to run his bow across the strings of his bass furiously, while the other instruments lulled their melody by way of staccato, giving the voice of the orchestra temporarily to a low, bellowing, haunting sound that Goku was executing marvelously.

It made Vegeta smile in a rare fashion; hearing what he had worked so hard over being played exactly the way he wanted it to, precisely how he envisioned it in his mind. He saw himself running through a dark forest when he wrote it, escaping the trials of his anxieties and the ghosts of his past, his heart racing in an unforgivable beat, the deep chords providing a soundtrack to his torment. The only difference now, a noticeable one that made his breath hitch in his throat, was that when he turned around, the one chasing him was Bulma.

He swallowed roughly and ran his eyes over to Goku, ready to signal him for the end of his solo. The man's eyes were stuck on the page in front of him, not even bothering to look up at Vegeta, and yet he followed his every movement as if they had written the piece together. Vegeta studied the way his jaw clenched as his bow rubbed across the strings in his final notes, and he finally looked up at Vegeta. Goku smiled lightly, nodding to Vegeta that he was ready to give back the reigns. He wondered when he had so effortlessly given Goku the control, but oddly, he was comfortable with the ceasing of power. He nodded back, and turned his attention to the rest of the orchestra.

He flipped the page as the violins chimed happily with the sudden turn of mood. It was beautiful, the notes coming across as the dawn after a night of terrors, exactly what Vegeta had wanted when he wrote it. A dawn that shone the light on the hope of tomorrow, a new day with new promises that he sought after so desperately. And as he saw the movie playing along in his mind to the harmony, a blue haired woman waved at him, staring into the sun as the warmth tickled her face, the smile that stole her lips just as radiant as the orb in the sky. He found himself wanting to reach out and touch her, see if she was as ethereal as she looked from a distance. Instead, his hand came away with smoke as the sad tone of the cello took over, making his mini film grainy with afternoon rain.

Vegeta sighed and tried to shake off his somber mood, berating himself for not being able to get her out of his mind. Ever since his arms had known the comfort of her waist, all his brain could focus on was how she fit against his mold. It infuriated him, Goku accompanying his mood as he picked up his pace again on his beast of an instrument, and Vegeta cursed under his breath.

Vegeta's attention was demanded by the cello section, and he hesitantly looked over as the notes became more aware of their own power. He narrowed the heart of the section coming from Yamcha, or at least he thought, as a giant beast bared his fangs at him in his daydream. An ugly thing, Vegeta concluded, that wanted to scare him away from his territory. Originally, it was supposed to be a home that Vegeta was running to for shelter, but now it came in the form of _her_. Goddamnit, what had the witch spelled him with to make him see her in every shadow of his mind?

His saving grace came in the form of the viola, blending in smoothly with the cellos as it serenaded the beast, and Vegeta found that the notes were his own voice, unafraid and unmoving. The beast whimpered as the cello died out, the mighty viola reigning victorious. Suddenly, the entire symphony became one, with each instrument singing its own powerful song, combining into a force that sang the triumphs of the flame haired hero, ready to claim his prize. It was emotional, in a sense, and Vegeta found himself swimming with the tide of the strings, the finish goal of the shore just within his grasp.

It was almost over, and he could see her lying on the creamy sands, her body getting kissed by the soft lapping of the waves. The tempo increased along with anxious heartbeats, ready to grab her hand and be saved from the threatening water. So close, so infuriatingly close, and the music reflected his goal as they rallied together in a crescendo of finality. Just as his hand breezed against her flesh, his fist closed around in a tight circle, the final monotone note of _D_ ringing in his ears. The vision was gone, along with the music as it completed. The haze of the film faded from his eyes, bringing his attention back to his orchestra. They all looked at him with widened eyes, satisfied smiles slowly beginning to spread across their faces. The room was eerily silent compared to just moments prior, when the walls were alive with the vibrant music. Vegeta swallowed, completely in awe of their performance.

"Wow," Goku broke through the silence, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, "that was intense! That was the first time we ran through the whole song without any issues!"

Vegeta blinked slowly as he realized that Goku was right. They had successfully played the entire piece for an hour, and Vegeta had not stopped once to correct them. Maybe they were _finally_ getting it.

"Yeah!" Krillin said, setting his viola in his lap, "That was perfect! That bass solo, and the cellos… _everything_. I can appreciate this piece you wrote now, Vegeta."

"Me too," a violinist woman, who referred to herself by numbers instead of an actual name, smiled at Vegeta, making him raise an eyebrow. She was usually cold and unapproachable, which by all means was perfectly fine with him, but her sudden expression made him oddly curious. "I can honestly say this is the best piece of work you've written for us so far."

Vegeta looked down at his sheets, the page half blank from unwritten bars, and felt fulfilled at the compliments.

"I wonder what was on his mind?" He heard a cellist unsuccessfully whisper to Yamcha. "I felt like he was somewhere else the entire time. Do you think that had something to do with why we played so well?"

He looked at them just in time to see Yamcha shrug his shoulders and mouth something to the man next to him, proving to be better at being inconspicuous. Vegeta grit his teeth, a selfish part of him wanting to tell Yamcha _exactly_ where his mind was.

His stomach dropped at the thought. Had he really been so preoccupied with Bulma that he successfully conducted such an intense rehearsal? His mind became dizzy as he searched for an answer, only to come up empty. He slammed his book shut, rattling the metal stand, and raked his eyes over the orchestra.

"Go home," he said in a low voice, making them look at each other quizzically, "practice is over for the day."

"But Vegeta," Goku piped up, scratching his head, "are you sure you don't want to go over the piece again? You can never be too thorough."

"I _said_ ," Vegeta repeated with finality, shoving his book in his briefcase and stepping down from the podium, "go home. There is no need to overexert yourselves. The play through was," he swallowed as he let the next word coat his tongue, "perfect."

He walked to the back to grab his coat as he heard their confused voices asking questions, the locking of their cases following shortly afterwards. The last thing Vegeta wanted was to go through those visuals again by way of rehearsal.

The only thing Vegeta wanted now was a drink.

oooOooo

The smoky black of the dim lit bar infiltrated his vision as he pushed past a small group standing close to the entrance. His eyes scanned the almost crowded bar, locking with the bartender. The muscular, long haired man nodded down the wooden countertop to the far end before turning back to wipe another glass clean. He sighed, his feet walking across the sticky floor and making his way to the exact destination.

He pulled up a stool next to the man who held his chin in his palm, looking at the wall as he played with an empty shot glass. He counted the small collection that circled around him. _Seven_. Seven shot glasses that were stained with a coffee brown liquid at the bottom, and he could practically smell the strong stench of whisky that spilled from his flesh. He motioned for the bartender and mouthed a request for beer, before dropping his head low enough to talk to the drunkard next to him.

"Vegeta," he said softly, letting his eyes rake across his frame, "what the hell are you doing?"

Vegeta turned around to face him, the white around his eyes slightly red, his lids narrowed. "Na-ppa," he slurred, grunting and sitting up straighter, "the hell are _you_ doing?"

"Raditz called me," he pointed to the bartender as he approached with the beer, "said something about you drinking yourself into a stupor and threatening to beat him up when he refused to serve you anymore."

"Hmph," Vegeta snorted, rubbing his eyes, "fucking Radish. Talks too goddamned much. I should introduce his face to my fist for even bothering to call you." Vegeta ran his glossy gaze up to Raditz as he placed a beer in front of Nappa. Raditz pressed his palms down on the counter and lowered himself to Vegeta's position.

"Look, if you were any of these other dumbass patrons, I wouldn't give a shit if you pissed in the alleyway out back from being so drunk. Hell, if you were anyone else, my call would have probably been to the police. But since my brother thinks so highly of you, and talks about you like you're some sort of god, I wanted to give you a better treatment than that. And Nappa here," Raditz nodded towards the bald man, " _is_ the better treatment."

"I appreciate it, Raditz," Nappa stole a look at Vegeta, "actually, _we_ appreciate it. And as soon as he gets some water in him, I know he'll agree."

"Fuck you both," Vegeta swore, slamming his fist against the counter, "I'm not a child and I don't require being babysat."

Raditz sighed, shaking his head. "I'll bring him a couple of spring waters. On the house for _you_ , Nappa. Just get this guy home safe and sound before he causes a ruckus. No need to soil his name."

Nappa nodded and watched as Raditz walked down to the fridge, and he looked at Vegeta again. "This isn't like you. I've known you for pretty much your entire life, and I don't recall getting a call like this. The only thing you get drunk off of is the music. So tell me," Nappa brought his bottle to his lips and gulped down a good chunk of his frothy beer, "what's the special occasion for?"

Vegeta growled, gripping his head as he tried to settle his shaky vision. "Nothing."

"Bullshit," Nappa spat, wiping his mustache free of foam, "I didn't leave my wife in the middle of dinner for _nothing._ We're already worried sick about you, Vegeta. Her especially."

"Tch," Vegeta looked away, his face growing hot, "tell her don't bother."

"Oh, sure, I'll get right on that. _Hey honey, your only sister's oldest kid wants you to forget about him._ How's that sound? Should I tell her over a glass of wine?"

"You're grating my fucking nerves, Nappa," Vegeta clenched his teeth, finding words becoming a chore to say, "she should know me well enough by now to know I _don't_ want her fussing over me."

"Yeah she knows you all right," he said, chugging more of his beer as Raditz placed bottles of cold water in front of them, "she told me about how you were acting in front of the shop last week. She was almost in tears with how cold you were to her, and I had to convince her for hours not to take it personally. She's family, Vegeta, _we're_ family. And the only ones you go-"  
"I don't need you to remind me," Vegeta bit before sighing, squeezing his fists together tightly. "I _know_ that, Nappa. I have enough ghosts haunting me to never forget."

"Then _act_ like it," Nappa burned an intense glare to the side of Vegeta's face, "and tell me what's going on? It's been five years since they've been gone, Vegeta, and you've been pretty quiet about it. It bothers me how you hold it all internally like that. I know the odds are stacked against us, but the least you could do is talk about it. Not drink yourself silly before the sun has even gone down."

"What's there to talk about!?" Vegeta squeezed his eyes shut, trying to still his beating heart. "They're _dead_ Nappa, because of my shit stain of a father, and nothing I do or say can change that." He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "Not even this."

Nappa looked at it suspiciously before grabbing it, unfolding it slowly. His eyes skated over the print, and he shut his lids as he accepted the message. He ran his fingers down his mustache, running his tongue over his teeth. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit." He folded the paper back up and handed it to Vegeta, motioning for another drink. "I guess I can see why you're drinking like this."

 _Not the only reason_ , Vegeta wanted to say, choosing instead to swallow the words down with his freshly opened water.

"This is major shit, Vegeta," Nappa rubbed his palm over his smooth head, "goddamn your father for putting you all through this shit!" He sighed, swallowing the rest of his beer. "What are you going to do?"

"What can I do, Nappa?" Vegeta looked at him with irritation as he placed his water bottle back down on the counter, "Imagine what happens if I _don't_ get the money. Then what? They come after you? After Natsubi? It has to end with me. I don't want any more blood on the hands of this family."

"I get that, Vegeta, but this isn't some run of the mill loan shark calling to harass you. _This_ is some pretty heavy shit, and I would think twice before you just fork over all that cash! What happens if they want more? Then what?"

Vegeta chugged down the rest of his water bottle and grabbed another, feeling the refreshment of the liquid pool in his belly. "I will pay what is on that paper, Nappa, and not a penny more. I don't know how, but I will pay it. And I will deal with anything else that happens afterwards."

Nappa watched Vegeta as he brought his new bottle of beer to his lips. He chuckled, dropping his head and shaking it. "You sound just like her, you know?" He brought the beer up to his lips, swallowing a little bit before continuing, "That statement has your mother written all over it."

Vegeta smirked at the compliment, drinking some of his water. "I suppose. My personality is the only thing I have left of her."

"Not true," Nappa said sternly, "you have so much more that is Yasai if you look hard enough. Now _that_ was a good woman, and don't tell Natsubi, but if I had met your mother first," he whistled, throwing a heavy hand on Vegeta's shoulder, "let's just say you would be calling _me_ dad."

"Don't put those thoughts in my head, dip shit," Vegeta brushed the hand from him, "I'm sure you would have made a bigger mess of things than my own father ever did."

Nappa shrugged. "Nah, if you were my son, you'd be at the top of this world right now, and not just some prodigy from Metro City. I'd have made sure that you were a household name, with a family and a pretty little wife to cook you nice meals every night. Instead, you're a brooding son of a bitch who scares all the ladies away." Nappa laughed as he brought the bottle to his lips again. "The last woman who was drooling over you came in the shop the same day as you. Now _she_ was a looker. I thought to myself, 'Vegeta fucked _that_ up?' She was pretty adamant about whatever you two had."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Vegeta knew he was drunk, but he wasn't _that_ shitfaced to not remember having a fling with a woman in the recent years.

"I didn't catch her name, some young lady with blue hair. And _fuck_ , she just took my breath away with one look. Had me flirting around like some love struck teenager. It's a good thing Natsubi came after you did. That red hair of hers would have been flying all over the place as she yelled at me."

Vegeta caught his breath as he listened to Nappa, blinking his eyes as he tried to wrap his head around. Of course he was talking about Bulma. That was the same day she had followed him around, of course, but what _really_ bothered Vegeta was how he felt anger in listening to Nappa talk about her like that.

"So what happened with that anyways? Not to completely go off subject, but I _gotta_ know how you blew that."

Vegeta's brows knitted together as he opened his mouth to say something, but the ringing of his phone interrupted him. He opened it without bothering to check, bringing it up to his ear.

"Yes?"

"Ah, Vegeta my boy. This is Dr. Briefs, you know, the owner of the lot you bought?"

"Yes, I know who you are," he said with annoyance, rubbing the corner of his eye.

"Good, good. So listen, I have some contractors that want to put some flooring in to replace the wood my daughter dirtied with her paint. I have some samples on me that they want you to sign off on so they can get started in the morning. I know you're a busy man, but is it possible that you could meet me there in about an hour? I promise this won't take long."

Vegeta banged his fist against his forehead, cursing under his breath. He _really_ didn't feel like dealing with any sort of business, especially in his current predicament. But then again, maybe something as mundane as picking out floor samples would prove beneficial to his clouded mind.

"That will suffice," he breathed into the phone, gulping down the last of his water.

"Excellent! I think you'll like what I have for you, it seems fitting to a musician's taste. I'll see you soon, my boy!"

Vegeta ended the call before Dr. Briefs could properly say goodbye. He stood up and tossed some money on the counter, grabbing his coat. Nappa eyed him curiously.

"Where the hell are you going?"

"Property business," he replied simply, feeling a yawn threaten to rise out of him.

"Oh, I don't think so!" Nappa reached out and grabbed Vegeta's arm. "I'll be damned if I let you drink and drive anywhere."

Vegeta yanked his arm back, glaring down at him. "I'm _walking_ you shit head," he said, buttoning his long, black coat, "the property isn't too far from here."

Nappa glared at him in return, ultimately releasing his arm. "I swear to god, Vegeta, if I hear that you went cruising around tonight, I'll return you to Yasai sooner than she'd like."

Vegeta snarled at him, turning to walk out of the bar. "What an ill-fitting threat, asshole. Talk to me like that again and I'll accept it as a challenge."

And with that, he walked out of the bar and out into the busy streets, the orange haze of the setting sun washing over him.

oooOooo

The door to the lot was unlocked, and Vegeta made his way inside with no complaints.

He was about twenty minutes early, and he was grateful to Dr. Briefs for being careless so that he didn't have to stand out in the grueling cold. The inside of the place warmed him, prompting him to shrug off his coat and place it on a table near the entrance.

Bulma had obviously been cleaning; the walls shone with a sort of pristine white that had not greeted him the last time he was here, and most of the dust had been removed. Her paintings stayed behind, still littering the walls, a showcase of her promise that he could have them. He walked over to the canvases, properly studying them carefully. He lifted the first one so that he could see it better, an image of a woman floating in water staring back at him. The woman's long, brown hair fit against her slender body in deep waves, and Vegeta admired the usage of the color scheme that Bulma intricately picked out. The tendrils covered her most private of parts, yellows and whites being used to show the reflection of the sun on the surface of the pale blue water. Vegeta could feel what Bulma was thinking when she painted this, and that is what made her a genius in his mind. She got him to _feel_ through her paintings the same way he was able to through his music.

He sat it down, imagining what she titled the unnamed piece, maybe _Freedom_ or something like that, and moved to the next one. This painting carried a different tone, one more haunting, showing an elderly woman gazing at herself in a mirror. Her skin was wrinkled and worn, and from the angle drawn, her face was contorted into a sad frown. Her counterpart, however, was _vivacious_. In the mirror's reflection, the woman's head was tilted, smiling smugly at the older woman as she paraded her youth and beauty in front of her. Her unscathed hands were clutched around an emerald stone necklace, just as the older version was doing. The background was shadowed in black so that the attention was solely on the two women. Vegeta turned the painting around, reading the title of _Deadly Youth_ scratched into the back. Fitting, he admired, and sat it back down.

His mind was still rattled from the effects of his drinking, and he found himself paying compliments to Bulma that he had never said aloud. It made him even more furious that she wouldn't take charge of her own life, and he wondered what would be the catalyst in finally making her able to do so. Art as glorious as hers did not deserve to wither away like a rose in the shade of winter.

The door to the lot opened, and Vegeta walked to greet Dr. Briefs, smoothing down his shirt. He should have asked Raditz for another water, as each step still seemed slightly wobbly.

"Dad?"

Vegeta stopped in his tracks at her voice, knocking on the door to his eardrum uninvitingly. Since their incident, he hadn't seen her, and was sure she was avoiding him just as much as he was avoiding her. But with only one entrance to leave between them, it seemed like fate had other plans for the duo.

Her footsteps clicked across the wood, and Vegeta braced himself for her as she rounded the corner.

What he _didn't_ brace himself for, however, was the sight of her.

She was dressed extremely different than what he was used to. A black hourglass dress hugged her tightly, the neckline dipped low and falling off of her elegant shoulders. The bottom of the dress came to just above her knee, wrapping tightly against her frame and giving him a look of her shapely legs that ended in a pair of red high heels. Her hair was curled, with the right side pinned back behind her ear. She looked as if she stepped out of a classic Hollywood movie, and Vegeta swallowed as he drank her in.

Nappa had put the money on the head in this instance. She was _stunning_.

"Oh!" She said in surprise, grabbing her chest, "I didn't know you were here. I-I was looking for my dad."

She was nervous, he could tell by her stuttered words and her shaky demeanor. He nodded, betraying his own anxieties. "I believe he is on the way."

"Oh. Okay." She pressed her eyes down to the floor, closing her painted pink lips tightly as the silence slept between them. Vegeta grunted and turned away from her, not wanting to drown himself in awkwardness. Besides, he had seen enough of her in the corners of his mind, and he didn't need her taunting him physically too, especially not looking like _that._

"Vegeta," she spoke, not surprising him in the least bit, "about last week…"

"Don't," he cut her off, feeling his head go light as he tried to claw his way back to sobriety, "There's no need to speak on it."

"Right," Bulma said, although he heard her walking towards him, her heels taunting him with every click of her step, "except I think we _should_."

She rounded him so that she was in front of him, and he tried to will himself to not look at her. But the spell of her mixed with the seven shot glasses he inhaled won over his sense of reason as he slowly raked his eyes up to hers.

"I don't want it to be like this all the time, Vegeta."

He stared into her pleading eyes, and he found himself searching for her just as he did in his daydream. "Be like what?" he replied in a tone lower than intended.

"I don't know, awkward? Or where we're always arguing with each other? It doesn't have to be like that, does it?"

Vegeta sighed, tearing his gaze away from her hypnotic stare just long enough to become preoccupied with the walls. He really didn't know how to answer her. It wasn't as if he _intended_ to always get a rise out of her, or her out of him, it was just his nature. It was how he acted with everyone that tried to get a little too close to him.

But she was the first person to make him second guess in doing it. And solely to her.

She nodded as she looked down to her feet, turning around to walk over to the window. She folded her arms and stared out into the sun, the purplish tint of the sky beginning to cloud the room and turning on the automatic sky lights. He heard her breathe deeply and he watched her from behind.

"It's funny," she said softly, "I was on my way to dinner with Yamcha and his parents, and I remembered the silliest thing. It was about when I was in high school, and how one of my art teachers gave me an F on an assignment because they told me I wasn't risky enough. I'm sure that doesn't surprise you. I came home crying to my dad about it, and he was pissed. But instead he fixed his face and told me to put on some old clothes. Then he took us out back and had me paint my portrait in mud. Said that would show her how risky I was, indeed."

She giggled and turned back to him, locking her eye contact with him. "The next thing I knew I was driving over here to tell him that."

"Why?" Vegeta asked before he could stop himself, "Why drive out of the way to say something in person when you have a cell phone?"

"I don't know," she shrugged her shoulders, "I just felt like I _had_ to come here."

"And here you are."

She nodded, a ghost of a smile lingering on her lips. "And here I am."

It bothered him that she told him that story, and a part of him wanted to tease her by saying that he wasn't the only one who noticed how complacent she was in her box of ease, but the words refused to spill from his lips. She tore her stare away to look at her paintings.

"I guess I wanted to prove something to myself? By driving half an hour away from dinner with my boyfriend and his parents to come here and talk to my dad would show that I was risky. It's stupid, isn't it? I just couldn't get that story out of my head and I had to tell it."

"So you're telling me instead?" Vegeta was positive that it was the whisky, and certainly nothing more, that was making him entertain her for so long. There was no way in his sober mind, he told himself, that he would carry on this conversation past its prime. Certainly not.

"Well, you're here aren't you?" She blew a breath out of her mouth in the form of a chuckle and shook her head, her blue curls dancing across her cheeks. "I'll just be honest here, Vegeta. What you said really rattled me. I know it was in the heat of the moment, and I know you apologized, but a part of me can't shake off what you said."

Vegeta took a deep breath, grunting slightly. He thought they were over this. He really didn't want to spend more time marinating on this any longer. "Bulma-"

"No," she brought a hand up to stop him and smiled, "I'm not saying that to open a can of worms. I'm saying it because…" she looked at him shyly, batting her lashes nervously, "…because I think I needed to hear it."

She turned around to her paintings and began to rummage through them, stopping as she reached the back. She picked one up and looked at it, frowning at whatever was staring back at her. "Do you remember when you first came here and I told you I had a painting I was working on that you may want to see?"

He nodded, his eyebrow perched in curiosity.

"Well, after you left, I went back to it. It was the first thing I painted in _years_ , and I wanted it to be perfect. And then some sad part of me realized that I could never reciprocate the wonder I witnessed the night I saw you conduct the concert. So I stopped working on it all together."

"Hmph," Vegeta chided, "Now _that_ is the silliest thing I heard you say."

Bulma glared at him, pursing her lips. "Stop that. Let me finish what I was going to say before you start judging."

Vegeta shoved his hand in his pockets but let her continue.

"After I saw you last time, I became…. _inspired_."

Vegeta felt his cheeks heat up as he recalled the intimacy of their embrace, and he tried to stop it. He was given some solace as he watched her face absorb the color of cherries, and she dipped her chin to her chest and turned the painting around, closing her eyes tightly.

Vegeta was awestruck at the piece in front of him, and he felt the space around him freeze in time, the only things existing in his universe being him, her, and the beauty that was captured on the canvas.

The painting depicted the night of the concert, the heads of the audience painted with different shades of black. Fuchsias, lime greens and pale yellows were splattered around the stage where the members of his orchestra sat, taking on the form of lights. Like the music from his dream, he remembered, and he could hear the gentle melody serenading his memory. The faces of the orchestra were all drowning in the shadows of oil paint, only the center of the painting demanding the audience's attention. There was no denying that the sharp flame hairstyle was Vegeta, but what struck him was the manner in which she portrayed him. He looked happy; the warm colors in his face adding to the allure of a smile that stretched across his lips, his arms raising in mid conduct.

The yellow light that shone directly over him made him out to be some sort of god and it made it impossible to take his eyes off of himself. The painting depicted everything he wanted his concerts to be, alive in color, captivatingly beautiful, and _she_ had managed to capture it with a brush and oil paints.

He brought the painting down and ran his eyes slowly up her frame until they reached her face. She was anxiously waiting his response, her chest slowly moving up and down. Something about her eyes invited him to approach, and he graciously accepted the offer.

"Is this," he said in a whisper, his eyes narrowing, "how you see me?"

He watched her swallow thickly, and he could practically taste the hesitation as it fell on the shadows on her face. "It's what I thought of you that night. It's the reason I became interested."

"Is that so?" The damned whisky was working against him again. It was making him act without thinking, move without his consent. Vegeta felt like he was on an astral plane, hovering in the wonderment of the stars as he watched them down below. Her puzzled face, his slow steps, the space between them decreasing.

She nodded, linking her eyes directly to his. "What do you think of it?" She whispered.

Vegeta was inching closer, surprised that she was not moving away from him. Her eyes were screaming at him, and he found himself desperately wanting to remedy her peril. "I think exactly what I told you before," he was in front of her face now, looking down at her as she watched him with her lips slightly parted, "you're too talented to not showcase it to the world. It bothers me, to see such a gift lying dormant."

"I wanted to," she confessed, "I really did. But Yamcha said—"

" _Fuck_ Yamcha," he said with venom, and in which way he meant it he wasn't entirely sure, "if he isn't pushing you, what is he good for?"

She opened her lips to say something but fell short. Vegeta watched the entire scene unfold in the multi window of third and first person, wanting to stop his hand it reached out to touch her face. Time really slowed down for him then, her face turning with widened eyes as she looked at his hand that found home in the warmth of her cheek. Her eyes gravitated upwards to his, saying his name before her lips did.

"Vegeta…."

Vegeta was unable to ignore the temptation that her face and the whisky brought anymore, leaning in closer. "What is he good for?" he repeated, before finally crushing his lips against hers.

Her lips were softer than he would have ever anticipated, and something about them made him come alive. It was as if he was living in a world of blacks and whites, and she had been the missing color. She kissed him back, sighing into his mouth as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her curvy body against him. He coiled his arms around her waist like a snake, noting how perfect her mold felt in his. Their kiss was experimental at best, slow and careful, both of them taking the time to even wonder if this was happening, _why_ it was happening, and pleading for it to not stop.

Vegeta screamed at himself to stop, but her mouth was so sweet, and the kiss was too intoxicating, even more so than the whisky that made his body tingle.

"Ahem!"

Vegeta was brought forcefully back into his body as time resumed its relentless ticks, as they tore away from each other, whipping their heads around to the entrance. Dr. Briefs stood there, smirking at them, small squares of flooring hanging from his hands.

"Dad!" Bulma gasped, moving from in front of Vegeta and trying to smooth out her dress.

"Hello there, Bulma. I didn't expect you to be here. Had I known, I suppose I could have just asked you to show Vegeta the samples."

"I, uh, was on my way to dinner, Dad," she said, trying to catch her breath. "I only came by to…uh…"

"No need to explain, dear," he sat the bags on a shelf and stuffed his hands in his pockets, "but since you're here, maybe you could help Vegeta pick out some flooring. If you're not too _busy_ that is," he grinned at them both.

"D-dad!" Bulma hid her face behind her hands, flushed in embarrassment, "I don't think—"

"Actually," Vegeta spoke up, feeling more sober than ever, "You two can pick out the tile. I don't care which you choose, so long as it matches the walls." He walked past Dr. Briefs, leaving behind a startled Bulma, and grabbed his coat. "I need to get some sleep. It's been a long day."

"Vegeta," Bulma called behind him.

"I'm sure I'll see you around," he said, turning to look at her briefly. Her lipstick was smeared, but she was still smoldering, and he had to leave to recoup his thoughts. He had just kissed another man's girlfriend, and even if he thought the man to be inferior , it still made him question his morals.

He turned back around and headed out of the door, throwing his coat over his shoulders and vowing _never_ to drink whisky again.

oooOooo

_**A/N:** _

_**Oh boy. Finally made some ground here!** _

_**Okay so first of all a MILLION thank yous to everyone for their lovely reviews! You guys are the best!** _

_**I hope you all enjoyed this meaty chapter I gave. If you're still confused about Vegeta's backstory (although I'm more than positive that I'll get a review hitting what's going on here on the head) everything will be explained in due time.** _

_**It's only up from here guys! Or not…but you gotta tune in to see what happens next.** _

_**Next chapter will probably be live sometime next week.** _

_**If you enjoyed, please R &R! Thank you friendos!** _


	10. Falling Down

_**Concerto Ten: Falling Down….** _

oooOooo

"And by the time I tried to stop him, it was too late and he drank an entire bottle of tabasco sauce!"

The dinner table erupted in a roar of laughter from _almost_ all of the participants, as Mrs. Briefs smiled cheekily at her husband, twirling her spoon around in her saucy spaghetti. Bulma chuckled forcefully at the redundant story, practicing a porcelain smile to match her skin tone. Her eyes ran down to her plate, the green china smeared with globs of red sauce, and forced her mind to stay current on the conversation.

"I didn't know!" Dr. Briefs wiped his mustache with a napkin, his cheeks tainted red from laughter, "All she said was, _honey the Bloody Mary's are on the counter_ , and I went for what I knew."

"Oh darling," Mrs. Briefs shook her head as she sipped her blood red wine, " for a brilliant man you sure have _questionable_ moments."

Dr. Briefs reached across the table and grabbed his wife's hand, intertwining their fingers together. The act caused Bulma to look up from her spaghetti trance, paying close attention to the unspoken intimacy that resulted in their skin touching. She brought her attention to the smile that her parents shared, a hidden secret that only years of marriage could produce sleeping between them, and a knot in her stomach formed. She should be doing the same. She should be turned in her chair, her elbow resting on the back of Yamcha's chair, as she searched his eyes for the puns to their inside jokes and other factors of their delicate love. Instead he cackled next to her, his cheeks full of meat sauce and noodles, his focus diverted more to his gluttonous meal than to the fact that she wasn't even paying him attention.

Which was a good thing, she assumed. That way he didn't have to see the confusion that clouded her eyes, or the confession that burned her tongue like acid. He wouldn't have to ask why the color of her lips looked different, and why they appeared to be stained with the presence of another.

_Vegeta._

Even thinking his name brought an anchor of guilt that hooked her ankles to the floor and left her useless. He had kissed her, and she had kissed him back, and she struggled to walk the line of the type of the remorse she should feel. On one hand, she had cheated. There was no beating around that bush of adultery, she had willingly given herself in some way to someone else that wasn't Yamcha. She couldn't even look at her shaggy haired boyfriend without being reminded of the warmth of Vegeta's lips. Which brought her to her second handed confession.

She had kissed him back, and she enjoyed it.

Her fork raked against her plate, producing a crisp metal grinding sound that caused the attention to be focused on her.

"Bulma, honey," her mother asked with slight alarm, "Is everything okay? Is the spaghetti bad?"

"No, mom!" Bulma smiled and forked a pile of her mother's cooking into her mouth, chewing happily, "It's _really_ good. Probably your best batch to date."

"Oh?" Mrs. Brief's perked up, her glossy red lips stretched into the perfect circle, "You really think so?"

"I have to agree, Mrs. B," Yamcha swallowed his wine by the gulp-ful, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin that rested lazily in his lap, "I picked the best day to have a cheat meal with carbs. This is _amazing_."

Mrs. Briefs waved him off, closing her squinty eyes and chuckling. "Oh Yamcha, dear, you're such a sweetie! I swear if my Bulma wasn't so taken with you, Mama would keep you around all to herself! Do you want to know my secret? _Marsala wine_. I know it's out of the ordinary but…."

Bulma's mind went on the fritz again as her mother's intricately detailed recipe droned out her thoughts. She chewed over the last few remnants of her noodles carefully, before swallowing the bitter taste of truth on her tongue with the sweet wine. She tried to reason with herself, that she was only reacting how _any_ sane person would if someone had just up and kissed them. Especially someone who was as talented as Vegeta. And as handsome.

No, she tormented herself further, she had handled the situation like a coward. She drank from his lips with a thirst that she didn't know needed to be quenched. Her fingers had smoothed over his warm neck as if she were searching for constellations beneath his skin. She should have pushed him away, but the second he had sunk his greedy lips into hers, her body demanded more. And that was what scared her the most. What would she have allowed to happen, if her father had not intruded?

The cheery conversation bounced off of her ear as she was brought back into the present reality, and as if on cue, she could feel Dr. Briefs burning a stare into her from across the table. Her eyes sheepishly rose and found her assumption to correct. He rose an eyebrow at her, and took a drink from his own glass, his eyes pinned to hers. She swallowed thickly and glanced away from him, feeling the weight of discomfort wash over her.

This time it was Yamcha who bore his dark brown eyes into hers, a genuine grin capturing his lips. "You okay babe?" he asked, and she found herself only being able to nod. What was she supposed to say in a situation like this, anyways? _No, Yamcha. Everything isn't okay, and especially for you. I kissed someone, and oh! It just so happened to be Vegeta! I know you're probably really upset, but you still love me right? Right?_

"Oh you two are so adorable!" Mrs. Briefs clenched her hands together into a tight fist as she squealed at them. "I really miss the days of young love," she sighed dreamily, "you only get that sort of passion once in a relationship, you know."

Bulma was now completely sure she wanted to evaporate. She begged whoever was listening that she could be carried away by the winds of the night, leaving not a trace of her remaining, not even her memory. "Mom—"

"Dear, could you pass the garlic bread?" Dr. Briefs intervened, flashing his daughter a knowing gaze, "and perhaps you could entertain us all with the recipe of this creation as well."

"Nonsense, my darling. Everyone has heard enough about my homemaker skills. What I'm interested in," she placed an elbow on the table, resting her chin on the back of her hand as she raised an eyebrow at the younger duo, "is when you two are going to be honest and give me some grandbabies. I'm not getting any younger, you know."

Yamcha choked on his wine and Bulma wished she could just choke. "Mom, please, not right now."

"What!? I'm only saying, sweetie, when I was your age I was pregnant with you! You would certainly have some beautiful children! What about your mother, Yamcha? Does she pester you with natural questions?"

Yamcha had recovered from his 'attack', and he grinned lopsidedly, gathering some more pasta from the crockpot. "All the time, Mrs. B. She _adores_ Bulma and won't shut up about it. I guess I'll tell you the same thing I tell her," he reached and grabbed Bulma's hand, squeezing her fingers between his, "when the time is right, we'll both know. And you guys will be the first one we'll tell. But I do plan on marrying your daughter eventually. There isn't another woman for me, and I know there isn't another man for Bulma. Isn't that right, babe?"

Bulma let out a shaky breath as her eyes darted back and forth between her mother and Yamcha. Their intense stares and expectations of her threatened to engulf her in a selfish flame, and she was on the edge of letting herself get doused. Suddenly, the aroma of the food became too potent, the whispering jazz music too loud, the occupants of the table too inviting. With a slick grace, she removed her had from Yamcha's and stood up. "I'm pretty stuffy, I'm going to step outside on the balcony for some fresh air."

She didn't even turn around to see two quizzical faces burning a hole into her back.

oooOooo

The crisp night air ran its chilly fingers through her tresses, causing her to shiver briefly. It was almost spring, and she couldn't have been happier, but she welcomed the end of winter as the cold supplied her with clarity. Watching the lights that littered the houses and buildings below dance for her made her heat beat slowly to a regular rhythm. A train whisked by, the bells creating music that the stars above could waltz to. This was peaceful, she decided, and more welcoming than her elaborate thoughts and her mother's direct questions.

She had probably been standing out here for about a half hour, and she could smell the pie that her mother prepared creeping through the cracks of the balcony doors. And as much as she enjoyed the sweet berry goodness, her stomach refused to let her swallow anything else. She had consumed enough guilt to fill her belly for several weeks.

The sliding doors screeched opened, and she glanced over her shoulder to see her father step out, his hands buried deeply into his pockets. He didn't glance her way, and for that she was glad, but she could almost hear his words that radiated off of his body. He was disappointed in her, that she was sure of. Despite however he felt about Yamcha, Dr. Briefs did not raise an unkind woman.

"Perfect night for a smoke," his overworked voice croaked, a small yawn slithering past his lips. He grabbed his red and white cigarette carton, grabbing a stick out and resting it under his mustache. He leaned the box over to her, his eyes still pressed forward. "It seems like you could use one, honey."

Bulma shook her head, unable to really look at her father. "No thanks, Dad. I've been trying to quit."

"Really?" This time he glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, his face painted in surprise. "I never thought I'd see the day. Kudos for taking charge of your health, unlike your old man, I suppose."

She chuckled, although her soft tone became lost in the breeze that skated by, leaving them in an awkward silence. Bulma had her fair share of trouble as a child, with her curious mind getting the best of her, but she had always been able to be honest with her father about her discrepancies. This time was different; this situation was something that she wanted to tuck under her pillow like an adolescent's diary.

"Dad," she finally spoke, her voice small, "I know what you must think…"

"Do you?" He leaned an arm against the railing of the balcony. "I'd love to hear it."

"You must think I'm terrible, right?" She chewed her bottom fear in a case of nerves, shifting slightly to face him, "That I'm a poor excuse for a girlfriend. For a daughter."

"Is that what you think?" He laughed and blew out a ghost of smoke, the blue wisps scattering around them. "Then I'd have to say you're wrong."

She glanced at him surprisingly, her eyebrow cocked. "Seriously?"

He nodded, smiling slightly at her. "Don't get me wrong, Bulma. Cheating is never the answer, and I don't want you to think I condone it in the least bit. But just like you had a hypothesis about what goes on in this old brain of mine, I've made several observations of my own. And in the past few weeks since that _situation_ , I've noticed your fingernails have been dirtied with paint."

Bulma glanced down at her nude nails, small specks of blues and pinks hidden in the cracks between bone and skin. She curled her fingers in the palm of her hand to hide them, as if she could take back what he had already noticed.

"You're painting again, aren't you?"

She didn't respond, nor did she need to. Dr. Briefs had his answer, and he studied her face as he took another long drag of his white cigarette. "I thought as much," he continued with a mouth full of smoke, "And when's the last time you've done that, huh? It's been _years_ since I've even seen you glance at an oil set. And now I see that same hunger in your eyes again. I wonder what could have inspired that change." He looked at her knowingly, forcing her to keep his stare and not turn away.

"It isn't what you think, dad."

"Hmph. Well, what I _think_ is that you're being stubborn old Bulma, who is afraid of gazing through the looking glass. And what is there to fear when you stare through it? Are you scared of your own reflection? Because I guarantee that's all that will be looking back at you."

Bulma crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't get it, Dad."

"Honey," he licked his cigarette over the balcony, watching as the embers of the flame scattered in the wind, "We all have a decision to make in our lives. And sometimes, those decisions will hurt others, even if that's not our intentions. But when we reflect back on these choices, and the weights they carry, all we find is ourselves staring back at us. So what I'm trying to say is, however _you_ feel regarding your actions is what you'll have to live with at the end of the day." He pushed his hands back into his pocket and stared at her seriously. "Do you like him? Vegeta, I mean."

"No!" She said automatically, defensively, and the reply didn't coat her tongue with a sugared finality like she expected. "I mean, I don't think it's like that, Dad."

"The contrary, Bulma. I think it's as simple as that. So perhaps you should mull over those thoughts, hmm? Just whatever you do, be fair to Yamcha. You're going to hurt him, but do it with humility and grace like your mother and I taught you."

"Dad, I never said-"

"My buddy says a new art supply shop opened up on the north side. Supposed to have all sorts of imported paints and what have you's that you can't find just anywhere. Maybe you should take the day off tomorrow and check it out. I could loan you some money for supplies."

Bulma closed her eyes and smiled, shaking her head. At least there was _one_ man in her chaotic life that could give her some grounds for stability. She opened her eyes again and studied the wrinkles that tattooed themselves under his eyes, and wondered how many times she was the cause of one. The graying hairs on his scalp, how many were the result of worrying over her? She would fix her own mess, if not for her sanity, than for his. He at least deserved to see her life sorted out, and she owed him enough to gift it. "Thanks, Dad. I think I'll do that."

"Wonderful! Make sure you paint something nice for your pop pop, okay?" She laughed heartedly, feeling her chest the lightest it had been in ages. What would she do without the old coot? She hoped to never find out.

The sliding doors announced a presence, causing both of them to turn behind them. "I suppose I should go check on your mother," Dr. Briefs smoothed his shirt and smiled at Bulma, "And I hope you now that she didn't mean any harm."

"I know," Bulma nodded her head, smiling in return, "I'll be in to talk with her so she doesn't worry."

"That's my girl," Dr. Briefs placed a hand on her shoulders, wondering when the little girl with too many band aids had manifested into the woman before him. He turned to Yamcha, who was a hair of a distance away, and released her. "I'll see you both inside," he announced, before turning and disappearing behind the opaque glass.

Yamcha rose an eyebrow at Bulma as he approached, his teeth chattering as a chilly breeze ruffled his hair. "What's going on, Bulma?" He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at her, "Why did you have to come out here?"

Bulma stared off over the railing, her eyes landing on a thin piece of wire that moved chaotically in the wind. A metaphor, it seemed, for her wavering emotions. She didn't know how to tell Yamcha what happened, but she could at least _try_. She turned her attention back to him, letting her blue oceans settle in on his chocolate irises. He looked so concerned for her, and that made all what she had to tell him hurt a little bit more. "Yamcha, I-"

"It's the pasta, isn't it?"

She blinked at him slowly, attempting to register what he had just said. The breeze whipped her hair in front of her face, blocking her vision, and she let herself play peekaboo through the slivers of blue. The peace of the night settled again, and she moved the tendrils out of the way so that she could see him clearly. "What?"

"I knew it," he clicked his teeth and shook his head, "I should have made us some food to bring with us. Your mother would've understood, I'm sure of it. It's been so long since you've eaten fattening foods that the carbs and the sugar must be affecting your mood. That's my bad, Bulma."

She felt the muscles in her jaw go slack, and she couldn't tear her eyes away from him in that moment. She remembered instantly what her father said- _if he loves you he should know something is bothering you without you having to say it_ —and felt disappointed. Here she was, relishing in her own guilt over hurting him, and he thought she was upset…about _food_?

"Tell you what," he continued, inching closer to her and wrapping his arms around her waist, "I'll make sure we go on a high protein diet for the rest of the month. We'll have juicing cleansers, and natural aloe smoothies, and once a week on Saturdays we'll have high intense cardio. It'll _totally_ make up for tonight."

….There was no way that he was serious.

"Yamcha," Bulma said, her voice struggling to stay calm, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, babe. Anything for my favorite girl."

Bulma cringed a little. She didn't deserve to be called his favorite girl, and she wasn't sure he deserved to call her that. "What do you want out of life?"

He stared at her in confusion, his lips slightly parted. "Where did that come from?"

"I dunno," she shrugged her shoulders, "I'm just curious. Can you humor me?"

"O…kay…," he let go of their embrace and put his hand under his chin, gazing up into the ink stained sky. "Let's see, I want to be so _ripped_. Like incredibly ripped, and healthy so I can have a long life. You only get one body, you know? Career wise, I'm down to really take on the music scene. I found out recently that some big shots from Broadway are supposed to be coming to see us perform," he tilted his head down and smiled at her smugly, "And I want to blow their minds out of the water. A job like that on Broadway would be so epic."

Bulma smiled, but for far different reasons than Yamcha was. Her mind instantly ran to Vegeta, wandering how amazing it would be if someone with a high caliber could see what _she_ saw. What she was sure that so many others could see. He would finally gravitate to heights that she knew he could ascend to.

"And best of all," he said, his voice dripping with a mild venom, "I could prove to that asshole Vegeta that he was wrong to make me second chair."

The smile vanished from her face like it was chalk and his words were the eraser. Something inside of her felt the need to defend Vegeta, but she knew that would give away her secret. And she didn't want to tell him like that.

"That's a great plan and all, Yamcha," she folded her arms under her breasts, "but I notice one _teensy_ problem."

"What's that, babe?"

"Where do I fit in? I notice that you didn't mention me at all."

"Oh, is that all Bulma?" He scoffed at her, waving her off completely, "I thought you were gonna say I wasn't talented or something. Of course you fit in to the major plan. Who else is going to be at my side? I can't think of anyone smarter, sexier," he placed his arms around her again, lowering his eyelids, "or more inspiring."

A chill raced through her at the last compliment, and she felt her cheeks turn pink. A grin stole her mouth, and she flashed him her dazzling pearly whites. "Inspiring? Wow, Yamcha, you think I'm inspiring?"

"'Course, babe! I mean, look at you! You've got the whole package! You talk a whole bunch of jargon that I just _don't_ understand, and then to top it all off, _these curves_ ," he ran his hands over the delicate shape of her body, squeezing her hips, "are _delicious_. Like mouthwatering delicious. The other night when you were on top, I was looking at us through the mirror on the closet door and I thought to myself, ' _Geeze we're a good looking couple_.' So hell yeah you inspire me. You give me the motivation I need to keep us healthy, happy, and sexy."

Bulma felt her stomach drop at his words. _That's_ how she inspired him? Vegeta had all but told him that she mind fucked him with her talent, but all Yamcha got out of the deal was that she _looked_ good?

"Is that…" her voice came out low, insulted, "…is that how you see me, Yamcha?"

"What's wrong with that, Bulma? I'm literally bowing down to every inch of you!"

"Not _every_ inch of me," she wiggled free of his hold and leaned against the railing, scorching her eyes into his, "You didn't even mention the most important part that makes me, well, _me._ "

"And that is…?" Yamcha raised his hands in the air, genuinely curious, genuinely wondering what had turned her spike in mood. He chuckled nervously. "I feel like I covered all of the bases here."

Bulma ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to get a grip on her emotions. It was as if Yamcha had waited until this very night to show her that he _was_ what her father had said he was. What Vegeta had said he was. He really didn't get her at all.

And maybe it had taken someone who _did_ seem to get her to make her realize this.

"What about my paintings, Yamcha? You know how important those are to me."

He rolled his eyes and scoffed playfully, shaking his head. "Not _this_ again, babe. Look, I'll explain it to you like this. You're good at those things, don't get me wrong. But there's good, and then there's _great_. Take for instance this guy that I was in orchestra with back in college. You remember Silver, right? Well anyways, he played cello, and he was good. But he was _just_ good. And I used to tell him that he shouldn't put so much emphasis on the cello and find another craft because he just didn't have _it_. But he didn't listen to me, and you know where he is now? He owns a pretzel shop downtown. And guess what? The pretzels are _good_ , but they're not great. All I'm trying to do is save you that embarrassment later on, Bulma. Your art is in the technology side with your dad."

Bulma would have rather Yamcha had slapped her across the cheek. He could have told her she was ugly, said that she needed to lose some weight, commented about her humungous shirt that she slept in, _anything_ would be better than what he had just said to her. Hell, even Vegeta had a place of concern when he pushed her, but Yamcha was just being cruel.

Her eyes stung at the realization, and she cursed him in her head.

"Are you ready to get out of here, babe? It's pretty cold, and I can think of a _great_ way to keep warm," he said, wiggling his eyebrows at her suggestively.

Bulma took a deep breath, trying to keep herself calm in the company of her parent's home. "Actually," she forced out, looking at him squarely in the eyes, "I'm going to stay here tonight."

Yamcha's face fell as he looked at her unpleasantly. "Are you serious?"

"Very serious. My dad wants to take me shopping tomorrow so I'll just spend the night."

"Oh. Okay, well do you think they'll mind if I stay too?"

"No, that's not a good idea," her words became clipped, tight, "I think you should head on home, Yamcha."

A thick silence grew between them with the intent of a malevolent spirit, draining whatever positive energy that could have brewed there bone dry. A train whistle blew again. In the far distance a drunk man declared it to be party time. Bulma was sure she could use a drink right now, but all she could manage to do was stare at her partner in complete disbelief and hurt.

"Fine," Yamcha replied in an angry tone, "I'll go on home, _alone._ "

"Have a goodnight, Yamcha."

He shook his head as he stretched his neck back, running his teeth over his tongue. He couldn't believe her right now. "It's the fucking pasta," he whispered, turning to leave her, "It's always the goddamned carbs."

Bulma watched as he slid through the doors, counting down the seconds until he drove off. She leaned over the railing, cupping her hands together as she heard the startup of his engine, followed by an aggressive acceleration. She sighed as she saw his brake lights bend a corner and disappear behind a row of homes.

A veil lifted from her eyes as she mulled over their spat. And while it did not absolve her of any guilt, it certainly made her question exactly where they stood, and what was even worth it anymore.

It also made her wonder what _exactly_ kiss had meant, outside of an attraction.

Bulma needed to marinate on a lot of things, but first she required a good night sleep and bottle of her mother's best wine.

oooOooo

The address listed on the white paper matched a quaint building in the artsy neighborhood where she had previously 'stalked' Vegeta. It was on a different street than she had ventured down, and it stood out like a ruby among diamonds. To her father's urging, she had taken a cab there, said that it would do her mind some good to go on a day adventure. And as her feet pressed against the cobble pavement, she realized just how right he was.

She stared into the window of the shop, taking in a mental stock of their inventory. Already she could see oil paints that had to have been imported from France, various canvas papers lining the walls in artistic glory. Bulma smiled, feeling like a child in front of a toy store, and just absorbed it all in. She felt giddy, and mentally thanked her father for suggesting the place to her. She would be in here for _hours_ , she knew, and the only thing that would make the trip better would be a warm mocha latte.

Her nose followed the scent of chocolate and coffee, making her turn around to look across the street. A cute little coffee house beckoned her, enticing her taste buds with its warm yellow exterior and dancing java beans on the awning. She braced herself to cross, reaching in her pocket for her wallet.

And when she looked back up again she saw him, heading towards a nearby music store.

Bulma's heart hitched in her chest. Of course she hadn't seen him since the incident, but she certainly hadn't expected to run into him _here_ , of all places. He hadn't noticed her yet, thank all of the gods, and Bulma tried to reason with her feet to move before he did. With all of the confusion that slept in her belly, she didn't need the added dilemma.

But then again…

She shouldn't have to avoid _him_ , right? After all, she tasted the liquor on his breath when his tongue asked for permission to invade her mouth, so it was possible that he didn't even _mean_ it. She didn't know if that made it better or worse, but it wasn't something she felt like mulling over at the moment. To hell with the latte, she decided, if she had to stew over this for too long, then what was the point?

Just as her feet were about to gain back their momentum, he happened to glance across the street, immediately locking eyes with hers. Everything else blurred out, like negatives on a photo strip, only Vegeta looking at Bulma, and her breath getting caught in the ladder of her throat.

His face was expressionless, but she was sure that the calm demeanor did not possess her as well, and she wondered when he would eventually turn away. Instead, to her surprise, he _crossed the street_.

She mumbled for him to stop, wondering what it was he thought he was doing, and felt her heart fluctuate with every step of his Oxfords against the cobblestone. By the time he reached her, Bulma was an anxious mess, threatening to spill in front of the art shop so they could use _her_ as paint.

His hands shoved in his pockets, and his thick eyebrows remained stoic, he stepped a few stones in front of her and merely said, "Bulma."

His deep voice made a chill scratch her spine with its long fingers, and she couldn't stop the gasp that escaped her lips. "Vegeta," she all but whispered in reply.

They stared at each other for a while, the others around them still moving about like hazy objects with no destination, as if some grand deity was watching them through a magnifying scope. Bulma wanted to find an excuse to leave, but the longer she looked into his eyes that resembled midnight, the harder it was for her to find a reason to go.

Vegeta's eyes tore away from hers, giving her a solid breath back, and he looked behind her at the art supply store. A knowing grin lifted the corner of his mouth and he looked back to her. "Stocking up?"

She nodded, although the gesture was more meant as an excuse to find her small voice. "My dad told me about this place. It looks like it will be amazing."

"You mean you haven't gone in yet?"

She shook her head, slightly disappointed with the small talk. Here stood two people that had given each other the sharpest of tongues, and after one kiss, could barely function a real conversation. She watched Vegeta's grin dim, and something inside of her dimmed, too.

"What are you going to paint?"

"I'm not sure yet," she blushed, "but the inspiration is definitely there."

"I see."

There it was again, that weird silence that she was growing to hate. She wished she could morph it into a balloon so that she could pop it, and all the things that they needed to say could trickle out with the release of helium.

"Vegeta, I-"

"-I apologize to you, Bulma."

Bulma shook her head in disbelief, wondering if she heard him correctly. Of all the things she thought she wanted him to say, she couldn't be sure that an apology was one of them.

"You are dating someone," he continued, "And despite what I _think_ , I shouldn't have put you in such a compromising position. I simply had too much to drink."

She felt like he was pulling air from under her feet that she didn't realize she was floating on. Even though she had assumed that much to be true, hearing it spill from his lips brought a discomfort over her that was unsatisfactory.

"Is that all that was?" She asked, disappointment lacing through her words without her consent, "Just your drinking?"

Something flashed over his eyes, but then he blinked and it was gone, and he nodded stiffly. "I apologize for letting myself become clouded. I shouldn't have kissed you at all."

That was the pinch that tugged her heart, and Bulma could barely stand it.

"Don't say that," she whispered before she could stop herself, "Don't act like you didn't want to. Don't apologize for it like you were alone in the situation." She stepped closer to him, although every part of her brain screamed at her to stop, and she really felt like time slowed then. Even the smell of chocolate coffee couldn't overpower the woodsy cologne that attached to him like a second skin.

She stared up at him with eyes so large and curious, tempted to run her fingers over his cheek and see what happened when fire collided with ice. "Because you weren't," she said after a moment.

She watched his adam's apple bob as he swallowed, and he licked his bottom lip as wind tickled the spikes of his hair. "What are you saying, Bulma?"

 _You know what I'm saying._ "That…you weren't alone, Vegeta. That…I kissed you back. That…I _wanted_ to kiss you back."

Vegeta's eyes opened wide as he looked at her, and she felt nervous as if she was fifteen again and talking to someone completely out of her league. He slowly reached out to tuck a piece of stray hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing over her cheek. Bulma shivered at the warmth, feeling it tingle all throughout her body. Her lips parted, and she felt herself slowly getting closer to him, wondering what they looked like right now. Did the woman at the coffee shop think they looked cute? Did the people in the art supply stop wait with bated breath for them to seal the deal again? Were they as anxious as she?

Was _he?_

Her lids closed as she braced to feel his warmth again, but suddenly his hand was removed from her face and a coldness replaced his body. She opened her eyes to find him backing away from her, a snarl on his lips.

"Damnit, Bulma," he pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath, "We can't keep doing this."

"Wait, Vegeta—"

"Stop! Just…" he sighed, looking at her again, "…just stop. Look, _you_ can't keep doing this. I don't need to taint you with my own sins. You're too… _good_ for that. So go in your art store, get your supplies, and go home to your boyfriend, okay? And…"

She tasted the words before he could say them, and she felt her eyes sting already.

"…And just stay away from me, Bulma."

He turned from her then, but not before letting his eyes linger on her for a slight moment longer, not before she noticed him cursing under his breath. And then his back was to her, his long trench coat swaying in the wind, taunting her with every step.

And she stood on the cobblestones like a fool as the world resumed it pace around her, except this time the colors were a little greyer, and she couldn't paint it even if she tried.

oooOOOooo

_**A/N:** _

_**Okay guys, can I say I LOVED the enthusiasm on the last chapter?! Especially my friends on AO3, I could pretty much hear the squeals through the screen. I seriously love all of you guys, and thank you for always managing to make my day a little brighter.** _

_**Sorry if this chapter was a little boring, tbh I struggled with a good transition before we get to the** _ _ **good** _ _**stuff, *wink wink* but I hope you enjoyed it none theless. I figured Bulma needed a chapter to dwell on everything.** _

_**Yamcha is a douche.** _

_**Thank you guys a million for all the likes, faves, follows, comments, kudos and all that jazz. You all have helped me in such a rough time in my life, and words could never begin to repay you all for your kindness. If I could, I would sent you all a Vegeta themed present to make you as happy as you made me (please excuse the sap, I'm a sap atm)** _

_**Please R &R if you enjoyed!** _

_**Until next time, my friends!** _


	11. Sunday

_**Concerto Eleven: Sunday** _

_**A/N: My favorite drink is lemonade, so I'm going to serve you all a glass this chapter. (In other words, this one is NSFW)** _

oooOooo

Since as far back as he could remember, Vegeta made it his personal mission to take Sunday's off. No rehearsals, no composing, nothing majorly productive on the well-known day of rest.

Which is exactly why he should've known that this day would be… _pecuilar_ … when he agreed to have an early private rehearsal with Goku on the last Sunday of winter.

He stroked his chin as he watched the taller man unzip the case that wrapped his instrument, and contemplated why he had even allowed this in the first place. In any sort of normal circumstances, Vegeta would have told Goku to fuck off somewhere when the man had texted him in the quiet of the night, begging for a chance to work on his piece. But even with his brain foggy of sleep, and his fingers tingling from being squashed under his head, Vegeta had the right train of thought to respond, "Whatever, be there 10am." And so here he was, an adrenaline spike of an extra-large coffee coursing through his veins, an itch to see what Goku had planned forming in his fingertips, a veil of a scowl masking the anxiety on his face.

"So I was thinking," Goku set up his stand and smiled cheerily, "that maybe we could change some things around a bit?"

Vegeta narrowed his eyes as he let the vague suggestion swim in his tummy. Goku may have been talented, but that didn't mean that Vegeta was willing to let him waltz in and demand changes to an otherwise perfect piece. He crafted a dark expression on his features, and pulled his lips in a tight circle as he said, "Oh?"

"It's nothing like that," Goku waved his hands in front of Vegeta's face and flashed a white flag of a smile, catching on to Vegeta's offended tone, "I think what you've done is absolutely brilliant! It's just that…well…" his voice trailed off as he looked away, his jaw tight.

Vegeta snarled, but the man had caught his attention. To so blatantly throw out a criticism was something he wasn't too familiar with, and while he didn't believe that Goku could _actually_ add something useful, his curiosity needed to be satiated. "Well what?" he barked, "Do you have something to add or not?"

Goku danced his vision back to him, a glimmer of thrill sparkling in his deep brown eyes. "Okay, well if you're up for hearing it then here goes!" Goku grabbed his music sheets and picked up his bass, intently turning to the last page. "Everything about the piece is like a story, right? And that's what makes you such a great composer is because you tell a story through the notes! And this one is sad, like a lost spirit writing to her boyfriend who's still living or something like that. And somewhere around the time where the violas pick up, I feel like there's a confrontation, like a battle between lovers. And then there's a huge crescendo of madness, like an intense fight. And then there's nothing." Goku stopped his rambling and stared at Vegeta sadly, his eyebrows bunched. "All that buildup and then it just ends. I was thinking that maybe we could have a more dramatic finish, you know? Like in the end, both of them get what they want."

Vegeta folded his arms and took a deep breath, feeling a foreign feeling of pessimism wash over him. "Why should they?"

Goku rose an eyebrow in confusion and scratch his head. "Come again?"

"These lovers in this fable you've concocted. Why should they both get what they want?"

"Well, because that's how life works, isn't it? If you fight hard for something, don't you always get what you want? I mean, that's the story of me and Chi Chi, anyways," he chuckled, "She wanted me and went after me relentlessly. And in the end, we're both happy."

Vegeta scoffed and rolled his eyes, shaking his head at the fairytale lifestyle that Goku liked to pretend that he lived. "Sorry to burst your bubble, Kakarot, but _life_ doesn't work that way. Maybe for you, for some reason that I haven't been able to pinpoint, but for the rest of us, we're merely surviving. We don't always get what we want."

"Says who?" Goku frowned and rested his body against the bass, "Why can't you get what you want? Look at you: You're one of the best musicians that I've ever come across, _and_ you have your own orchestra. That sounds pretty fulfilling to me."

Vegeta closed his eyes and took a deep breath, turning his back to Goku. He walked to the piano in the far corner of the room and took a seat, running his fingers over the ivory keys. A heavy weight of silence pressed down in the room, and Vegeta remedied it by clicking on his metronome. He played a simple scale, the notes mocking the whisper of a ghost, and finally drew his eyes up to Goku. A light melody began to trickle from his fingertips, calling out to Goku to pluck the strings of his bass in reply. Vegeta chuckled, impressed –but not surprised-, that Goku had managed to play along with him completely in tune. "Tell me," his voice curved over the steady ticks of the metronome, "What made you start playing?"

Goku smiled as he reached for his bow, his staccatos becoming more aggressive and blending in with the high pitched melody Vegeta was forcing out of the piano. "Honestly? I've always played. My grandpa was a great pianist, and he taught me how to read notes. We used to play every Saturday when my dad would drop me off over his house. And I've always had the itch since then."

"Hmph," Vegeta closed his eyes as he let the notes surround him, seeing an explosion of color behind the darkness, "A family affair, I see. We're not so different after all." His fingers waltzed over the keys as he picked up his melodic pace, accompanying the sugar notes with keys of burnt honey. Goku ran his bow over his E string, his fingers meticulously pressing down to create escorting notes for Vegeta.

They played like that for a while, the melody smooth and unwavering, with Vegeta leading and Goku following obediently. Then Vegeta changed the tempo, pressing down on the keys with unrestrained strength as the notes became more aggressive and choppy. Goku sat silent for a minute as he watched Vegeta take on a new rhythm, and the flame haired man looked over the top of his piano and smirked at Goku challengingly. Goku reciprocated the arrogant smile, pressing his bow back to the string as he rose to the test, his notes sounding angry. They were having a musical argument, and it wasn't clear as to who was winning.

"Faster, Kakarot," Vegeta chuckled as he picked up the pace even further, leaving his metronome wallowing as it failed to keep up, and was satisfied as Goku followed suit, "I'd hate to finish this and leave you with your tail between your legs."

"Don't worry about that, Vegeta," Goku grinned, "There's not a tempo you can set that I won't match."

Vegeta's chest puffed out at those words, and he saw to it that Goku was an honest man. He had never been challenged like he was now, and it was exciting in a way that he never dreamed of. He quickened the tempo further, abandoning the light airy notes for more haunting ones, keys that demanded answers instead of questions, the voice for what he didn't say.

_How can I get what I want, when everything has already been taken from me?_

Goku head dropped as he became lost in his own haze of notes, feeling more alive everytime his fingers changed positions on the strings. He was a mad man, a psychotic musician with no real direction, and yet every chord was a response that he didn't know he was giving.

_Then you go get more of what you want. Obsessions never expire._

Vegeta heard the rebuttal through Goku's façade, and he looked down at the contrast of his olive fingers on the ivory keys to focus. His fingers moved in robotic ticks, as if he were merely a spectator instead of an orchestrator, and he fought his brain before he thought too much and fumbled over himself. His fingers pleaded to him to ask another question, and he complied.

_What if what I want is unattainable? What if it is already spoken for by another?_

Goku looked up again, feeling a tingle wash over his spine as Vegeta's playing became even _more_ intense, some sort of desperation knocking past the walls of his notes. He smiled, realizing that he was in a battle of sorts, and he knew exactly how to reciprocate as his bass spoke for him.

_Then it must not be what you really want. What's meant for you, is for you._

Vegeta grit his teeth, feeling his throat tighten. What was happening under the blanket of the music? It had always been therapy for him, even if no one understood it, but this time it was hitting a place that he had not allowed anyone to gaze upon. Who did Goku think he was to march into _his_ theater, criticize _his_ arrangement, and then make him think through his fingers? It infuriated him, it _unnerved_ him.

And it made him confront himself in a way that no one had dared.

His eyes widened as he realized how untrue that was. Goku defied him in the orchestra, challenged who he was a conductor. But _she_ challenged who he was as a person, and he hated it. There was only one woman in his life that he would swallow hell for, and she was long gone, leaving him in a darkened pit with his demons. But something about her made him approach the flames that he had long sworn off, and even though life had long taught him to not get burned, his couldn't help but let his fingers tickle the heat. And when he drew his hand back, he found a warmth instead of a burn. But how could he touch the sun when someone else was already bathing in its light?

_So what are you going to do? Don't be a coward._

He glared at Goku as the question swam through his mind, convincing himself that the question came directly from the bass player, and he meshed his fingers against the keys furiously.

_I am not a coward. She is not mine to touch as I please._

Goku stared back intensely, as if he was aware of the conversation taking place.

_She feels it too. Remember the way she looked at you._

_Stop it._

He could feel the end approaching, and a small part of him didn't want it to. It wasn't supposed to turn into _this_ per se, but here they were, playing back and forth in a helix of fury, both unaware of each other's intentions. It created an opaque layer of trust that stilled over them, and neither one had become aware of it. The piano groaned in a mellow voice under Vegeta's fingers, begging for Goku to provide it some solace.

_Remember the way she hugged you. When's the last time you were embraced like that?_

_I was a child. But that is irrelevant._

_Not to her._

_I said stop it!_

… _And not to you._

Vegeta growled as he brought the melody home, curving into a smooth finish as Goku raced beside him. Their stares met in the middle of the room, landing at Vegeta's podium, perfectly harmonizing into a solid ending. As Goku's bow faded from the strings, he sucked in a tight breath. "Wow," he whispered, wiping his brow, "How did you _do_ that?"

"Tch," Vegeta covered the keys with the black piano lid and slid away, his fingers tingling from his aggressive playing, "Do what?"

"Bring that out of me like that," Goku sat his bass on the floor and sat down in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, "I mean, I've played without notes before, but I've never done _that_. That was really something."

"No need to make this into a big deal, Kakarot," Vegeta folded his arms and looked at the wall, "you have talent. And your ear is next to perfection. You need to rely on both of those facts if you want to make it far in this industry. There will always be someone better than you—"

"-So make yourself better than them. I remember you said that in the first rehearsal."

Vegeta nodded, mildly pleased that _someone_ had been paying attention. That same logic had been applied to him directly to get him to his current platform. Musicians were born and bred every day, but it was only the ones who honed in on their craft and perfected it that had managed to make something of themselves. And he refused to be left in the _other_ category of non-believers.

"Hey," Goku broke the silence, "I don't know if I'm overstepping my boundaries, but are you okay? I mean, it felt like something was bothering you during that play through. You wanna talk about it?"

Vegeta sharply turned his head back to Goku, his stomach churning as he watched how genuine and innocent the man's face had become. What did he think, that he would tell the man who was close with Yamcha what was on his mind? That every time he looked at the damned sky he would daydream about what it would be like to fall into her body and run his fingers down her flesh? That he was pissed with himself for even being attracted to her in the first place, and ignoring the laws of his own world?

Absolutely not.

He stood up and walked to the podium and stood on it, gathering his baton. "You _are_ overstepping your boundaries," he said drily, "So take that energy and put it into this piece. If you want me to write a new ending, prove to me that you're worth the effort."

Goku meddled no more, instead smirking and rising swiftly to his feet, picking his bass up in the same breath. "Like I said earlier, Vegeta, don't worry about that. You just let my playing do the talking."

Vegeta rolled his eyes and brought down his baton.

oooOooo

A flash of lightning illuminated Vegeta's living room, and he braced himself for the boom of the accompanying thunder. A heavy rain beat against his rooftop, demanding to come inside, and he relaxed against his sofa. While others may have dreaded the intense storm, Vegeta welcomed it. It was as if mother nature was putting on her own personal concert, and he was the only one in the world that could understand it.

So as usual, he put on his bluesy jazz and classical music, grabbed a beer from his fridge and sat down to rewrite the ending to the piece. When Goku had demonstrated what he thought the finale _should_ be, Vegeta was reluctant to admit that he was blown away. It completely changed the story in his mind, giving the whole 'everybody gets what they want' sentiment life. He ignored the fact that the movie his brain played ended up with him content with his conquest of the battle, a strapping woman on his arm with sapphires for eyes and hair as endless as the sky.

He grunted and swallowed another gulp of his beer, writing another bar on the paper. Louis Armstrong's voice belted from his record player, daydreaming about a perfect world, serenading Vegeta's imagination as he constructed the next bar of notes. His mother loved this song, and would play it on rainy nights as she gathered him and his younger brother in front of the fireplace with snacks galore, her milky voice humming along to the tune. Vegeta remembered the day he was able to play a rendition of the song on his father's saxophone, and how delighted she had been to hear the notes. Now he sat in between the suffocating walls of his all too small space, with only memories of yesteryears to keep him company.

The thunder roared again, washing over the music and his thoughts, shaking the building with its torment. A perfect timing, Vegeta considered, as he wrote a dramatic crescendo for Goku and the cello section. He felt anxious to finish, worrying that the lights would go out before he could perfect it, suddenly wishing for Armstrong to shut up so he could concentrate.

He stood and stretched, determined to shut off the record player before it could do any more damage on his psyche or his composition. A small repetition of knocks called for his attention at the door, and he turned to face it with an eyebrow raised. He glanced over to the clock on the wall. It read a quarter after ten, reminding him that it was too late for visitors, _unexpected_ ones at that, and he shook his head as he prepared to ignore it. They would get the hint and leave him in solitude.

Or so he thought, because the knocks became more forceful, causing him to slide his palm down his face. He wasn't sure what the universe wanted from him today so badly, but he was _so_ close from telling it to fuck off. How could he spend a Sunday in peace, if everyone was so hell bent on destroying it?

He marched to the door as he clenched his fists, his long sweatpants dragging under his feet. He had every mind to immediately curse the unwanted guest to oblivion. He jerked the lock from its place and swung the door open, his scowl that had stolen his face immediately smoothing out into confusion.

He took a deep breath and shook his head. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Can I come in? It's really wet out."

He took stock of the wet hair that clung to her cheeks like babes to their mother, her crystal eyes sparkling in the blue of the night. He sighed and moved out of the way, motioning for her to step over the threshold.

He sighed irritatingly and looked out of the doorway, watching the spray of water that fell over the side gutters and stained the walk way. He shut it and turned to face her, catching her running her fingers through her damp, frizzy hair.

"When I said to stay away from me, Bulma," he grit his teeth, "I meant that literally. Not show up to my doorstep in the middle of a night on a Sunday."

She shrugged off her coat and tied it around her waist, and only then did he notice she had a canvas wrapped in newspaper with her. She was moving around frantically, as if someone had stirred her to life by way of electrocution. "I know, I have no right to just barge in on you like this, especially after getting your address from your application," she tucked her hair behind her ear and licked her lips, "but this is important, Vegeta. And it couldn't wait for 'maybe I'll see you around.'"

He took a deep breath and pinched his nose, squeezing his eyes together tightly. "What the hell is so important? Shouldn't you be with Yamcha?"

She looked down at her feet sadly, reaching for the canvas. "Yeah, _about_ that…oh! Is that Louis Armstrong? I didn't take you for a jazz fan."

"I like _music_ ," he crossed his arms and burned his stare into her, "not that it's any of your business. Now will you get on with why you're _here_?"

It was her turn to take a deep breath, and she slowly brought her face up to meet his as she did so, as if she was waiting for permission to speak. She tore the newspaper away from the canvas, letting it litter around her feet. "I'll clean that up before I go, but I _have_ to show you this." When the last piece of paper butterflied to the ground, she turned it around to him, her eyes clearer than he ever remembered. "I stayed up all night painting this, and just finished it about an hour ago. And the first thing I did was bring it here to show it to you."

Vegeta let his eyes slowly drift away from hers and roam over the art in her hands. An apprehensive looking woman was readying herself to leap over a balcony, one knee over the ledge already, the other planted firmly on the ground. One hand played upon her bottom lip while the other was extended, attempting to grab onto a cloud. Her face was the perfect mixture of fear and excitement, and Vegeta found himself wanting to tell her to just jump already and take the risk. Was that the point? "It's a nice painting, Bulma," he drew his eyes back to hers, "But I fail to understand why you _had_ to show me this."

"Just hear me out, okay?" She sat the painting down and closed her eyes, as if she were trying to muster some sort of courage behind her words. "I've never really met someone like you before, Vegeta. You're _such_ an asshole, and it drives me crazy!"

"I won't be insulted in my own home!"

"Wait a second!" Her eyes opened, coming alive with gasoline fire, and she continued as the flames threatened to engulf him. "But you've made me realize a lot of things about myself. I've always played it safe. I got good grades because I'm smart, not because I wanted to, and I went to school every day even though it bored me with a lack of a challenge. And I went to college and changed my major from fine arts to engineering because I'm Bulma Briefs, heir to Capsule Corps. The media didn't like my hair? I changed it. No one looked at my art? I stopped painting. I even met a boy and decided to pursue a relationship with him even though he doesn't set my soul on _fire_." She looked away in shame, shaking her head as she sighed. He wanted to demand that she keep her eyes locked with his and show some assertion, but he wanted her to also get to her point.

"And he never pushed me, you know? He _told_ me to play it safe by staying in a field that I'm not passionate about. And I let him because I love him, and that's what you do when you love someone, right? You do things to help make them a little happier, and then one day you look up and you're a completely different person."

"That's stupid," Vegeta scoffed, "To change yourself for the sake of another. Where do _you_ fit in all of this?"

"Exactly," she sniffled, shivering due to her soaked wardrobe, "Where _do_ I fit in? I kept asking myself this all night, wondering why I hold my own self back. So I picked up a brush and got to painting out my feelings, and I came up with _this_ ," she pointed to the canvas, her eyes still in a heated dance with his, "And I realized that _I'm_ the girl in the picture. Too afraid to take risks even when the opportunity is in front of you. I don't want to be that person anymore, and you showed me that."

Vegeta swallowed hard, feeling uneasy. If he was confused before, he was _certainly_ unsure of where this conversation was headed now. "What is your point, Bulma?" His question came out softer and deeper than intended, and he cleared his throat to rectify himself.

"My point is, that after you told me to stay away from you, my feelings were really hurt. And why should they be? I mean, I'm in a relationship with a guy who, although flawed in _so_ many ways, is otherwise good to me. And yet here I've been these past few days in a rut because _you_ told me to stay away. All I can think of is _why? What did I do to make him want me to go away?_ You kissed _me_ , and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it ever since, and now I'm here having insecurities like a teenager, and all for someone who doesn't give a damn."

Vegeta felt his face go hot, and he watched her intently, feeling like he was watching a movie, unsure who to root for.

"Vegeta, you told me I don't take risks. And I know this makes me _such_ a shitty girlfriend, but for the first time in my life, I want to take a risk that's for my benefit. And if you tell me to go away again, I will, and we can pretend this conversation never happened."

He watched her fluffy lips part, watching the words spill from her lips before she could vocalize them. A part of him wanted to tell her to stop, make her aware of the consequences of whatever she was about to ask and how it could affect them both. And the other part of him, the part that was currently winning, told him to shut up and let her sentence fall from her pretty mouth so he could hear them with his own ears.

"I…I want…," she continued slowly, taste testing her words, "I want to give in to this desire I have that won't go away. I want to kiss you again, Vegeta. And I don't want to stop."

There it was. There was the pang of anxiety that he knew would come with her statement. The confusion of him taking his _own_ risk, or telling her to leave and take her drama with her. He watched her swallow hard and mimicked her actions, unsure of what to do. The crisp scratch of a new song starting on his record player cut off his breath. Duke Ellington was playing now, the sweet piano rift of _In a Sentimental Mood_ providing the soundtrack to their current mood. Bulma had not given her eyes permission to glance anywhere else, a hunger burning through sapphires. She was waiting on him, he could tell from her heavily blushed cheeks and her lidded eyes, but his feet were cement blocks and he was too weak to lift them.

She caught her breath and looked down, nodding in a saddened understanding. "Say no more," she grabbed her canvas and tucked it under her arm, not bothering to put on her coat, "I'm sorry I interrupted your evening like this. At least I took the chance, right?" She chuckled lightly, although he could tell it was pained, and began walking towards the door, stopping just in front of him. She put on the best plastered smile she could manage, making him wonder how many times she had perfected it, and simply said, "Goodnight, Vegeta," before stepping around him.

_Don't be a coward._

Before he could rationalize further, his arm reached out and grabbed her, keeping them both still. He heard her gasp, and he tightened his loose grip around her forearm. Duke Ellington urged him on with his silky saxophone, and Vegeta nodded to no one.

He circled her around slowly in front of him, so that he was able to look her in the face. Her chest was rising and falling, her eyes showing a small shade of hope that she was trying to mask. He darted his glance back and forth between hers, trying to find a reason to make all of this stop.

He couldn't find any.

Instead he said in a husky tone, "Are you aware of the consequences? You do realize what you're asking for is selfish."

She nodded without hesitation. "I know it's selfish. I've already given myself _that_ pep talk. Tomorrow morning when I wake up, I might really hate myself. But I don't want to live for tomorrow. I just want to be present in the _now_."

"What about Yamcha?"

She looked down, and only then did he see a reluctance in her eyes. But with a voice so small, the pitch of a mouse, she replied, "What about Bulma?" Her eyes slowly rose to his, and she continued with a, "What about Vegeta? That's all I want to focus on right now."

He brought his face closer to hers, feeling that familiar tug in his chest. "You're sure?" he whispered.

She nodded once, smiling briefly. "I have no plans of backing out now."

And with that, under the umbrella of a hypnotizing saxophone on a Sunday night, he drew her bottom lip into his mouth, kissing her again.

She immediately dropped her canvas and threw her arms around his neck, pressing her chest against his. He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding on to her territorially, even though for the moment she belonged to no one but herself. He took his time in tasting the cherries of her lips, sinking into her soft skin like he was a dying man, and she was the cure to his ailment. Her tongue pressed against his lips, demanding permission, and he submissively obliged.

He pushed them back to his couch as they tasted each other, their bodies falling over the edge of the sofa as one. Bulma squealed as his heavy weight was pressed down on top of hers, and he pulled back to make sure she was fine. Her aqua hair, still damp from the rain, puddled around her in a halo, making her appear even more ethereal than she already was. He just had to watch her, had to feast his eyes on her or else she would be taken away from him by a selfish god demanding his creation back.

"Is everything okay?" She asked, still trying to catch her breath from their heated kiss, "Do you want to stop?"

He snarled before dipping his head back down, letting his breath ghost over her lips. "Don't ask too many questions. Just enjoy the moment you desire so much," he smirked and ravished her mouth again. She sighed beneath him and ran her fingers up his chiseled back, drawing circles over his shoulder blades. He broke their kiss to feed on her neck, tasting her floral perfume and her sweet skin. She moaned lightly as the music changed, her delicate breaths folding into the soothing chords of Debussy's Claire de Lune. It was the perfect fitting: such a pretty melody for a pretty woman, who was warm and inviting under his chest. He got the urgent desire to let his fingertips convey how pretty he thought she was. He brought his head up to remove her shirt swiftly, before bringing it back down to taste her again, his hand cupping her ample breast, his palm rolling over her pebbled nipple.

"Vegeta…"She gasped, arching her back and feeding him more of her breast. Impatiently, he removed the thin fabric that covered her alabaster skin, providing the hardened nipple warmth by way of his mouth. She mewled under him as he sucked and pulled, and he wondered when was the last time he had been with a woman so intimately. More importantly, when was the last time he _wanted_ to as badly as he did with Bulma.

His tongue trailed to her other neglected nipple, showing it as much affection as the other one. Her deft fingers ran through his hair, and she tugged gently as she pleaded with him to bring his head back to hers. Although he wasn't exactly ready to give up his current prizes, he granted her request anyways, stealing her lips.

Her hand found their way to the hem of his tank top, and he allowed her to pull it off of him. She shrugged her wet jeans off, eyeing his sweatpants as he did the same, and she gobbled up the sight of him, if the look of lust in her eyes had anything to say about it. He blushed, turning away, and she grabbed his head and turned it back to her.

"Don't be shy," she smiled, "You look too delicious to be shy."

 _I should be saying that to you_ , he wanted to say, but instead he wrapped her thick thighs around his waist and sucked at her neck again.

Debussy continued his serenading as Bulma moaned and shifted her pelvis against his, urging him to enter. He let his fingers glide down the smooth curve of her stomach, past her soft, blue tuft of hair, just above her most private of places. A surge of arrogance jolted through him as he flicked over her swollen nub, his fingers drenched with her wetness. She breathed his name with a need that he hadn't heard before, making his own erection become impossibly stiffer. Her body reacted to him as he pressed a finger into her silkened core, and Vegeta felt himself growing undone. How could anything feel as soft, as pure, as _right_ as her? She squeezed her muscles over his finger, and he elicited a groan. His free hand ran through her hair, caressing her cheek, and he swore he could hear notes leap from her skin every time he touched her. Everything about her was poetic, and even though she _wanted_ this moment, he was the one left feeling honored.

He removed his hand from her, wanting to feel her around him. She gazed at him through the lustful slits of her eyes, placing a palm on his chest. He locked eye contact with her and she smiled sweetly, making an ache pull in Vegeta's chest. Vegeta conducted symphonies, he _wrote_ them, but never in his life had he seen a masterpiece come to life before.

Not until Bulma lay sprawled beneath him, her breath hitched in her chest as he entered her gently. She held on to her inhale, releasing it slowly as she relaxed around him. Vegeta felt like the universe made sense in that moment, as if he was supposed to be here, as if he was supposed to be inside of her. She brought his face down and pressed their foreheads together as he moved slowly at first, struggling to keep himself from climaxing already. She was just too warm, and he felt more at home inside of her then he did in his own apartment.

Their breaths became quicker, steadier, urging him to quicken his rhythmic strokes. His name fell from her lips with purpose, and he knew that he had to be careful under her spell. Neither one of them had prepared with protection, and Vegeta was in no means ready for _that_ sort of commitment. But if she kept moaning and saying his name like that, he was sure he'd slip up.

Her hips rolled against his as she met his pace, their bodies in rhythm with a new Debussy composition, _Rêverie._ "I love this piece," she panted, moving her hips quicker, "I paint to Debussy." Vegeta grunted as she moved with him, stilling briefly as he tried to contain himself. He needed to satisfy her, and quickly, because she was a temptress, and her body against his was making him _so infuriatingly close to-_

"Oh my god," she squealed, tightening her grip around his neck, "I'm gonna…"

Oh, thank _God_.

Bulma stiffened underneath him, and then relaxed into a pool of jelly, completely spent as the orgasm washed her away. Vegeta studied her face, how serene and beautiful she looked as she came, his name stained on her lips as she fell from nirvana. Her hips were still moving, clearly trying to make sure that she wasn't the only one who could feel such pleasure, and he clenched his eyes tightly as a white hot burn of his own climax pooled in his belly. He pulled out of her quickly, reaching for his tank top and spilling himself into the black fabric with an intensity that he couldn't give himself if he tried.

He gathered his breath before looking back at the woman sprawled on his couch, completely flushed and spent. He expected to see her face immediately contort into shame, realizing exactly what she had done, what _they_ had done. Instead, she looked _happy_. Content.

"Vegeta," she said lazily, his name dripping off of her tongue like honey, "Can you lay with me before I go?"

He watched her momentarily, the cloudy orgasm still pulling at his brain, and he couldn't reject his body from wanting to feel her pressed against him. So he climbed behind her, a little apprehensive as to what to do, but she grabbed his arm and threw it around her waist, snuggling close to his bare chest, her butt rubbing against his flaccid member.

Something about this moment was comforting to him, but he didn't want to spend the energy in trying to decipher exactly what, so he took a deep breath and simply asked, "So what now? You've had your way with me."

She chuckled, shaking her head and getting his chest with her moist hair. "I told you," she said sleepily, "I'll worry about that tomorrow. Can we just lay in the bliss of how amazing that was?"

"Hmph," he held his head up by his hand and watched her, noting how her chest was falling more slowly, and her eyes were not opening as easily through her blinks. He grabbed a blanket that laid on the back of the sofa and tossed it over them, knowing that she most likely wouldn't be leaving tonight. He bent down to her ear, smelling the soft fragrance of her hair. "I suppose making you stay away is impossible now, isn't it?"

"Mmmhmm," she smiled drowsily. "Can I sleep here?"

"What will you tell Yamcha?"

She shrugged her shoulders, and even through her haze he could tell she meant it. "Yamcha doesn't deserve me," she said in a whisper, "And I'm tired of it."

"I won't be your excuse, Bulma," he said sternly, running a finger down her side, "You won't string me along while you figure out your relationship issues."

"I won't. I promise, I think I know what I have to do," she snuggled closer to him, making him tighten his hold around her. "Goodnight, Vegeta."

He watched her as she drifted off into sleep before laying his head down beside her. He knew this Sunday would be off, but he didn't imagine _this_ would be the ending to his day. He reached to turn the lamp off on the desk behind them, letting Debussy lull them to sleep under night's embrace. He rested his chin in the curve of her neck, closing his eyes to drift off with her.

"Goodnight, Bulma."

oooOooo

_**A/N** _

_**Well….that escalated quickly.** _

_**Also, I definitely don't Condone cheating, but I never promised Bulma would be a Mary Sue.** _

_**Thank you guys for the feedback on the last chapter. I'm glad you all didn't think it was boring! I hope you are as enthuastic about this one as I am. SmutFest really killed my smutty writing, but I definitely like a lemon fresh story, so I hope this was okay!** _

_**You guys are amazing!** _

_**Please R &R! Until next time!** _


	12. Night and Day

_**Concerto Twelve:** _

_**A/N: I've been planning and marinating on this chapter since I've started to write this story, so I hope I execute it well :) . The 'drabbles' of this chapter take place over a series of a month. Hope you guys enjoy! (rest of a/n follows story) also, hope y'all are thirsty because I've got lemonade** _

oooOooo

The ticks of the wall clock in the kitchen were deafening to Bulma, making her scrunch the fabric of her sweatpants in anxiety. She dare not look to see what it displayed, choosing instead to rehearse the conversation that she had already practiced for the umpteenth time. The walls moaned in an agony of grey, making the shared apartment with Yamcha seem much bleaker than it had been for the past week. She had been kidding herself when she said that the tryst with Vegeta would only take place that one night. Yamcha was acting distant since their argument at her parent's house, prompting her to find solace in Vegeta, in Vegeta's arms, in Vegeta's bed. It had gotten to the point that it was the first thing that consumed her mind when she woke up, gnawing at the edges of her brain like a whiny child, and she could no longer ignore it.

It was getting late and he still hadn't showed. Some television program played in the background, a laughing track taunting her indecisiveness, and yet she paid more attention to the dark blue rug under her glass coffee table instead of the black and white sitcom where life was perfect.

The apartment door clicked open with a key, followed by a lazy shut. Bulma dragged her eyes to the entrance in the kitchen, watching Yamcha stumble in the doorway.

"Hi," her voice was soft, almost as if she had to force it out.

"It's dark in here," he mumbled incoherently, and she could taste whatever spirits he had indulged in.

"I thought it was fitting. Are you drunk?"

He nodded his head and tried to place his key on the mail hook, but he missed it all together and it ricocheted to the floor noisily. He didn't bother to pick it up.

"I had dinner with my parents," he looked at her briefly before turning to the television, pretending to care that the main character's face was covered in cake frosting, "They asked about you."

"Oh." Bulma tore her eyes away from his haggard appearance, mimicking him as she glanced at the television. "What did they ask about?"

"Same old conversation. Wondering when we're going to get married."

"What did you say?"

He shrugged his shoulders, rummaging his hands through his long hair. "I didn't. Just poured another glass of my dad's brandy."

Bulma swallowed a lump of nerves that swelled in her throat, knowing that the moment was upon her. She slowly rolled her eyes to Yamcha, focusing on the bridge of his nose, and cleared her throat. His glassy eyes found hers unsteadily, his face washed in the soft glow of the television. "Look, Yamcha, I think we need to talk."

Yamcha sighed and ran a hand down his face, shaking his head with finality. Without a word, he turned from her and picked up his keys, walking wobbly through the kitchen.

Bulma squeezed her eyes shut in annoyance. "Where are you going, Yamcha?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me something I don't want to hear. And I'd like to avoid that trainwreck. It's been a long day and rehearsal was grueling. I'm going to the gym; don't wait up for me." She listened as his footsteps turned into ghost pitter patters, and the door shut again with a promise not to be opened for hours.

The clock ticked loudly again. The television laughed at her. The main characters drowned themselves in a kiss.

oooOooo

"That's a fancy bottle."

Bulma watched in wonder as Vegeta brought out wine from his cupboard, the bottle decorated with stained glass. He fumbled with two wine glasses from his mouth and his fingers, walking towards the couch where she sat. She perched up on her knees, offering to help him, his large grey shirt she was wearing swallowing her smaller frame. Vegeta had recently put on _Salut d'Amour_ , and Bulma found herself getting carried away with the beautiful melody of the violin. No matter what they were doing, Vegeta always knew how to set the mood.

"This wine is fifteen years old," he uncorked the bottle and began to pour the liquid into their glasses, "I've been waiting to try it."

"Oh?" Bulma batted her eyelashes prettily, reaching for her glass and bringing it to her lips, "And you chose _me_ to drink it with? I feel so honored!"

"Get a hold of yourself," Vegeta sat down on the couch next to her, allowing her to rest her feet in his lap, and glared at her from the corner of his eyes, "It just so happens that today marks the fifteenth year. My mother told me to wait until then to enjoy it. Said it would be the sweetest on this day."

Bulma took a healthy sip and scooted closer to him, bringing a hand to the back of his neck to play with the hairs that lingered there. "Mmm," she smiled, "She was right. This is delicious."

"Her father—my grandfather- owned a vineyard. He would gift our family with a bottle for the holidays. I've had this since I was sixteen."

Bulma watched as he brought his glass to his lips and drank, biting her lip as the rich liquid moved down his throat. Even when Vegeta wasn't trying, he was a work of art. "What was your mother like?" It didn't take much for her to realize that Vegeta's mother had passed, especially when he would bring her up from time to time, but he never talked about her in specifics. She didn't press on the matter, and he was relieved.

Vegeta narrowed his eyes and looked at her, a hint of hesitation dancing over his features. Bulma felt a pang of guilt as she watched his face grow in unease and uncertainty. Had she crossed a line?

He took a deep breath and tore his eyes away from her, his fingers lightly tracing circles over her exposed knee. "She was strong. Fearless," he said it like an admission, as if the words would condemn him on the spot, "Resilient. She was smart, but never boasted about it, and she had an ear for music that went unrivaled." His jaw clenched and he muttered something, and Bulma lightly ran her finger down his chiseled jawline to soothe him. He turned to look at her then, and she could tell that he was mildly feeling the effects of the wine. In a voice that slept under the romance of the music, he said, "Sometimes you remind me of her."

He looked embarrassed that he had said it, almost as if wasn't supposed to, but he did and she smiled. She gulped down the rest of her wine and placed it on the coffee table, leaning her body into his. She kissed his cheek and ran a hand down his chest. Vegeta turned his head from her and shook his head. "I don't like what you're doing to me."

She giggled and turned his face back to hers, pressing her lips to his. "Well, how about I change that? I can do something to you that I _know_ you'd like."

She kissed him with a fire that spilled from her pores, and he kissed her back greedily with no protest. _Salut d'Amour_ played on, but they were no longer paying attention.

oooOooo

Bulma's stomach groaned in protest as she rummaged through her empty cupboards. Being over Vegeta's apartment frequently over the past few weeks meant that he cooked for them, spoiling her from buying actual groceries. While Yamcha would normally take care of it, since he complained that she bought too many fattening foods, his shadowed presence meant that the kitchen duties were neglected. She eyed the small space, remembering a time when their laughter and lovemaking would take over every crevice in the confinement, but now the room was quiet with whispers of yesterdays.

She sighed and gave up, choosing instead to look through her secret take out menu drawer. If Yamcha wouldn't be home, then she could order an extra large pizza with sausage and mushrooms, just the way she liked. Her fingers itched over the locked drawer, her mouth salivating at the promise of crunchy crusts and savory sauce-

"Hey, Bulma."

Well, nevermind.

Yamcha sauntered in, carrying a white food bag and a drink, shutting the door with his foot. He didn't bother to look at her as he strolled towards the table, plopping down in the chair and taking out an aluminum tray from the bag.

It wasn't greasy pizza like she desired, but it was food. She opened the cupboard to grab a plate and some forks….

…And then she saw Yamcha crumble the bag and throw it away, revealing no other containers.

He turned to see the reality dawn on her and he shrugged his shoulders. "Didn't think you'd be home, babe," he said flatly, "Thought you'd be with your parents or something. Want some of mine?"

"No," Bulma retorted immediately, "No, enjoy your food. I'll just run to the store. And maybe when I get back we can finally talk."

"Can't," Yamcha replied through a mouth full of spinach, "Gonna meet up with Goku and Krillin for a mock rehearsal. By the time I get back you'll be sleeping."

Bulma didn't bother to dignify that with a response. She grabbed her coat and wallet and left, not caring that she forgot her keys.

oooOooo

The smell of fried meat blanketed the neighborhood with a tantalizing smell that made Bulma's stomach dance with anticipation. She searched the crowded streets for the source, landing her eyes on a food cart bustling with customers. She grinned greedily and raced to the music store where Vegeta was picking out supplies, her own bag of art goods slapping her thigh.

She found him sorting through assorted CD's, looking deep in concentration. Stealthily, she eased up behind him, attempting to startle him by placing her hands over his eyes.

"You're terrible at that, Bulma," he sighed, feigning irritation.

She pouted, removing her hands and waiting for him to face her. "How'd you know it was me?"

He grinned sinisterly, his eyes a dark contrast to his curved lips. "Because no one else would _dare_."

"You're no fun, Mr. Broody," she tugged on the sleeve of his jacket towards the entrance, "We've been shopping for hours now and I'm _starving_. And something smells really good."

"You're stopping my important purchase for food?" He complained but allowed himself to be pulled out of the door anyways, sniffing the air as soon as the outside grazed his skin.

"Just come on!" She turned to smile at him, maneuvering their way through the thick crowd of shoppers, the mildly warm spring day ribboning them with ease. They approached the food cart and stood in line, watching as a teenaged boy hurriedly took orders and handed out food. Vegeta scoffed; Bulma chuckled.

"I don't see why you dragged me here," he crossed his arms, "It's just meat cooked in lard."

"Who cares?" She pointed to the sign in front of them, a mouthwatering picture of chicken wrapped in some sort of batter tempting them. "It's fried chicken in waffle batter. That sounds tasty."

"That sounds _disgusting_." Vegeta turned his nose up and prepared to exit the line, "I'll do my stomach a favor and pass on this one."

"Oh just try it before you condemn it, will you?" Bulma had enough of men criticizing her food choices, and she wasn't about to give Vegeta a window of opportunity. "I'll even buy it for you since you want to cry about it."

"I'm _not_ crying," he growled, "and it's your money. But if I throw it in the trash, you can only blame yourself."

"Fair deal," she smiled, finally to the front of the line, "But you'd better try it first, Vegeta."

"Hmph."

The teenaged boy ripped out a clean sheet of paper and scribbled down Bulma's order for two, ringing her out swiftly. "Can you tell me, for my _friend_ here," she eyed Vegeta, "If this is any good?"

The boy smiled whole heartedly and nodded his head. "I'll be honest with you, miss, I only took this job so I can eat as much of it as I want. It's addicting, and I know it's unhealthy, but you see the crowd, right? That tells you how popular it is." He handed her two sticks of the battered chicken, a napkin wrapped at the bottom to catch the grease, and Bulma stepped to the side and handed one to Vegeta. He grunted as she knocked their sticks together in a 'cheers!' fashion, eyeing him as they bit into the meat together simultaneously.

The flavor immediately coated her tongue, a helix of sweet and savory, and she moaned in satisfaction. Vegeta chewed over his food carefully, sheepishly taking his eyes off of her.

"Well?" She bit into her meat again, "It's delicious, isn't it?"

He didn't make eye contact with her again, but tore a big chunk of his stick apart with his teeth, chewing with vigor. "I don't want to give you the satisfaction," he said in between bites.

Bulma threw her head back and laughed, walking alongside him as they made their way back to the shops. A street vendor began to play the accordion. It was a perfect afternoon.

oooOooo

"Why are there paint canisters everywhere?" Yamcha stepped over them carefully, trying his hardest not to spill the contents. Bulma stood outside on the balcony, working her brush against her canvas, slowly taking its virginity.

"There were some birds on the railing that were calling to me," she answered, not bothering to remove her eyes from her task, "And I had to paint them while the memory was fresh."

"You're _really_ back to doing that again!?" Yamcha folded his arms and looked at her disapprovingly, leaning against the balcony doors, "I thought we agreed you could put your skills to better use."

" _We_ didn't agree to anything," Bulma cut her eyes at him, " _You_ planted that ridiculous idea in my head, and I listened to you like a fool. But now I don't have to hide anymore, so I'm painting."

"What about the smart home? What about your dad?"

"What about them?" Bulma looked back at the canvas, continuing her fluid strokes, "My dad supports my decision, and he can manage to work on the smart home for a few weeks."

Yamcha shook his head, scoffing and licking his lips. "I can't believe you're going to give up on a gift for a hobby. What are you thinking, babe?"

Bulma's skin crawled as he called her the affectionate name, now as sweet as honeyed vinegar, and sighed. "Get your boxers out of a bunch, Yamcha. I'm allowed to be multi-faceted."

Yamcha's eyes widened as he marinated on her odd choice of words, the sharp twang to them sounding _oddly_ familiar. "Boxers out of a…what are you even saying? I don't even know who you _are_ anymore, Bulma."

Bulma ceased her brushstrokes just long enough to look at him squarely in the eye. The birds on the banister returned, chirping of their adventures over South City. The sun cast an eerie glow over Bulma's face.

"No, Yamcha. No you don't."

oooOooo

Vegeta called Bulma one Saturday morning and told her that he wanted to move his piano into the loft. All he requested was that she help him by holding the door while he tried to maneuver it through the small frame, but that had quickly turned into a practice session for him and an art session for her.

Vegeta's fingers roamed over the keys as he played around with different octaves, providing a soundtrack as Bulma mixed colors on her canvas. Aside from the music, they were quiet and content, both lost in the beauty of the arts.

Bulma stuck her tongue out as she tried different variants of browns and greens to perfect a skin tone, adjusting it so that it was _just_ right in her eyes. Vegeta breathed out a string of curses, and she turned around to face him. He meticulously pressed several keys, trying to find a sweet spot in his notes, his eyes casted into deadly slits. The late sun casted an orange glow around him, making his skin sparkle in the last moments of daylight. She couldn't help but giggle as she studied him try to work through his own madness.

"Hey, Vegeta?"

"Hmm?" He didn't bother to look up, completely intent on perfecting his piece.

"Maybe you could try a higher _E_ to start off with. I think it's missing some high pitched ranges."

He slowly gazed up at her, his eyebrow perched. "And what do _you_ know about writing musical pieces?"

Bulma flashed him a cocky smile and shrugged her shoulders, turning back to her canvas and painting her concoction of a color. "I guess I don't know anything, except I can tell you what I _think_ would sound right."

She heard him gruff, and she didn't need to turn around to know that he was watching her intently. A silence captured the room, save for the hum of cars as they drove past, and Bulma hummed quietly to herself, the tune a rendition of what she thought Vegeta should do with his piece.

Dainty notes accompanied her as she continued her song, mimicking her fluid notes and pitch. Soon the piano drowned her out as Vegeta experimented while using her advice, not fumbling over his own analyzing. She smiled in satisfaction as he picked up the pace, slewing notes together with ease as if he had thought of it all along. He mixed in a few notes of the lower range in, and Bulma was in awe at how much of a craftsman Vegeta was when it came to writing music. He had made a symphony out of her song in a way that only he could. He was a musical genius, indeed.

The piano dulled down to airy notes until his fingers glided off of them, like a majestic bird taking flight, and Bulma was startled when she felt his deft fingers skim down her back. An electric shock jolted through her, his warm presence cocooning her entire body.

"What are you painting?" He said lowly in her ear, his hot breath smoothing over her skin and making her come alive in a fiery blaze.

"I don't really know," she confessed, continuing her strokes, "This is just what came to mind while you were playing. It was peaceful."

"Hmmph," he rested his chin in the dip of her shoulder, covering her hand with his own, "It looks abstract. How Picasso of you."

His touch on hers made her tingle, and she found herseslf leaning against his torso for support. "I suppose it is."

Vegeta moved her hand on the canvas, smoothing out the edges of the oil paint in a different direction than intended. He dipped the brush in paint, in a purple that she wasn't planning on using, and brought it back to smear in the middle of the unfinished piece.

"What are you doing, Vegeta?"

He chuckled in her ear, his deep baritone causing her to shiver. "Now, now, Bulma, do you really think it's fair that you help me with my work but I can't help you with yours?"

She frowned as he used to purple in a place that she wanted to use yellow, and yet she didn't retract her hand. "But do you know what you're doing?"

"Does any artist know what they're doing? Or are they all just winging it and hoping that it comes out beautiful?"

"How deep of you," she scoffed, "but I beg to differ. I would like to _not_ mess this up, thank you."

"Tch," he smirked, his eyes half lidded, "Oh ye of little faith." He continued his third party painting, and Bulma allowed him to use the colors in a way that he saw fit, curious to see where it would end up. Finally he released her hand and stepped back, taking her with him. "Now look with your eyes instead of your overthinking brain."

Bulma processed the image in front of her and soaked it in. The colors were unconventional and random, but they managed to _fit_. It was like a puzzle that had no true purpose, but still provided resolution. The corners of her mouth tugged upwards and she turned around to face him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Well who would've thought?" She giggled, "You just created art."

"You say that as if I already don't," he frowned, "isn't my artistry the reason why you're playing the back and forth anyways?"

Bulma sighed and pressed her body against his, frowning. "Don't be like that, Vegeta. I'm working on it."

"It's almost been a month. I told you I won't be your excuse."

"Then why are you still here?"

A crimson blush rose to his cheeks and he looked away from her, clicking his teeth. She didn't need to hear his words, she knew that he still came around for the same reason she had.

Once you tasted the addicting allure of temptation, everything else seemed mundane. And Bulma, whether Vegeta wanted to admit it out loud or not, was Vegeta's current addiction. Not that she was complaining.

She silenced whatever tormenting thoughts that raced through his mind with her lips, the sun leaving them to their privacy as the moon shone on its children.

oooOooo

"So I was thinking that we could go out for a nice dinner, just the two of us. Get some wine in our system and have a little girl chat," Chi Chi rattled on in Bulma's ear, throwing out suggestions to get them out of the house.

"Sounds good."

"I even heard there's a new winery opening up downtown. I heard the food is supposed to be _amazing_."

Bulma giggled into the receiver. "Awesome."

There was a prolonged silence as on Chi Chi's end, not that Bulma was paying any attention to her friend. "And then I was thinking we could do a little mud wrestling at the local university, maybe some wet T-shirt contests? I would _love_ to show the students what pregnancy does to a woman's breasts."

"I'm fine with that."

"Bulma Briefs!" Chi Chi yelled into the phone, practically screaming Bulma's ear off, "What is so important that you're not listening to me?"

Bulma looked down at her current work of art under her milky thighs, her hands messy in paint. "I'm sorry Chi Chi, I was… _painting_."

"Oh," Chi Chi blew out a relieved breath, "I thought you were being nasty or something."

Bulma bit her lip guiltily as she ran a finger dipped in red down a bronzed chest, mapping out an imaginary planet full of oranges and yellows and reds on the skin. Vegeta placed his hands on both sides of her waist, sliding her naked body down to his erect shaft. Bulma gasped as she felt his bulge against the jewel in between her thighs, feeling her arousal begin to spill down. Vegeta smirked at her, mouthing for her to get off the phone. Impatiently, he lifted her up to enter her as his thumb stroked her clit in circles.

Bulma swallowed to stifle her moan. "C-Chi Chi," she said in a breathy voice, "I gotta call you back, my painting is really…oh my god… _hard_ right now and I've got to…unf…focus."

"Oh my!" Chi Chi squealed, "That sounds like you're really struggling over there."

Bulma bit her lip again as Vegeta thrusted his hips to move in and out of her, his thumb applying more force on her pebbled clitoris. "O-oh! You have no…idea…"

"Okay well I'll leave you to it! I hope you finish it well!"

"Oh I plan to!" She covered her mouth as Vegeta hit a spot he discovered that she liked, hitting the end button before Chi Chi could properly say goodbye. Vegeta smirked and flipped her over, stroking her rhythmically as she mewled beneath him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, begging him to go deeper. He obliged, holding her thigh in the air as he found home time and time again in her core, mentally reminding himself to pull out before he got carried away.

Bulma spoke his name like she was quoting religious text, letting it fall of her tongue sweetly. Vegeta made her feel more than a woman, more than a lover, even if he didn't speak it. The way that his cock fit perfectly inside of her was enough to convey any message.

Vegeta brought his head down to look at her as she whimpered beneath him, forcing herself to keep her eyes open and not get blinded away in nirvana. His stare was captivating, dark and mysterious, and Bulma felt the last of her resolve unfolding as she came, forgetting about her painted hands and smearing his face with her ecstasy. He brushed his lips against her palm, staining them red too, and let her ride out her wave until she was washed ashore before pulling out. Bulma lazily reached a hand down and finished him, relieving him of his duties, uncaring about where he soiled.

He collapsed backwards on the bed when he was spent, and she followed suit, laying her head against his chest as he caught his breath. His finger stroked her back, and she knew that sleep was upon them.

"Vegeta," she said just before sleep called her.

"Hmm?"

"Could you get used to this?"

Vegeta took a deep breath, his finger stopping in his track. "…I'm not answering that question until you decide on what you need to do."

"I've decided already," she whispered, cradling her head under his chin, dreading what she knew tomorrow would bring.

oooOooo

The text message was read loud and clear. Bulma could not tear her eyes away from the screen.

Chi Chi texted her earlier, complete with a picture attachment, apologizing throughout the content.

 _I'm so sorry to be the one to show you this. As a friend, I couldn't let it go. I'm really sorry Bulma. If you need to talk, I'm here_.

The picture was plastered on her screen like a stock wallpaper, a man leaning in closely to an attractive young woman, his lips at her cheek, his arm around her waist. His long hair blocked his face, but Bulma didn't need to see it any clearer than it already was.

Yamcha.

_I can't believe he could be so open about it! You're a great woman, Bulma, and he doesn't deserve you._

Bulma laughed as she read Chi Chi's concerned text. No, Yamcha did not deserve her, but not for the reason that Chi Chi _thought_.

Chi Chi was most likely expecting her to be livid, hell any woman would, but all Bulma could feel was a sense of relief. Even though Yamcha was not compatible for her in a romantic way, they had built a friendship that, although tarnished at the moment, was still there. All Bulma could think of as she glanced over the screen was:

" _At least he can find solace in another. I don't want to completely break his heart."_

It made this next moment easier, like knowing the questions to a test not yet taken, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She looked at the luggage that surrounded her, judging her, and waited patiently for him to walk through the door.

When he did an hour later, Bulma was sure of the words to say to ease the blunt of the wound to come, words that could allow them both to breathe. He walked into the living room and eyed her and the luggage warily, an insulting expression on his face.

"Bulma," he said softly, sternly, "What's all of this?"

"I think it's obvious, Yamcha," she sighed, standing to her feet and smoothing her pants, "It's _really_ time for us to have that conversation."

Yamcha licked his lips and breathed out, looking towards the wall. "Bulma…babe…You can't be serious right now."

"Yamcha," she closed her eyes, willing the words out of her mouth, "You and I both know it hasn't been working for a while now. We're on two different pages, two different books. And that's not a life we need to live."

"So you're just going to end it!?" He rose his hands in the air and approached her, his eyes pleading before his mouth did, "I know you've been mad at me, Bulma, but I can fix it! Should I buy you some paint?"

"Yamcha—"

"If you want to be an artist I don't fucking care babe! You want to eat that shitty food!? Fine!"

"Yamcha, it's not—"

"I mean I don't really _want_ you to eat that stuff, but if it makes you stay then whatever, we can eat carbs like once a week. That's what you want, right? A man who doesn't care about your health?"

"YAMCHA I CHEATED!"

The silence engulfed the room, playing out like an indie movie instead of Bulma's life. The damned clock ticked relentlessly again. Yamcha swallowed. Bulma sighed, a crystal tear sliding down her cheek.

"….You…what?" He looked at her incredulously, as if it were some April Fool's joke.

He had a lot of nerve.

Bulma looked away, unable to look at him squarely in the eyes. "I cheated," she whispered, "and I'm sorry, Yamcha. But that's the truth."

"So we can't be together because of some _guy?_ You're throwing away everything for some _guy_?!"

"It's more than that!" She whipped her head around furiously, knowing Vegeta was more than just _some guy_. "It's everything, Yamcha! It's the way you try to control everything I do, everything I eat! You won't let me just _be_ , and I'm sorry but it's too late for you to provide me with some ill promises now."

"I treat you like a _princess_ Bulma!"

"Oh!? Is that why you're out here smooching _other_ women!" She showed him her picture mail and watched his face turn beet red, his eyes unable to deny it. "Don't make yourself out to be a saint, Yamcha. You obviously felt the end of our relationship too."

Yamcha shook his head, studying the cracks in the wall. "She….she was just some girl from the gym. She likes the same things I do and she offered to buy me lunch…"

"Real happy for you, Yamcha," she bit, "And now that I hear you say that, I _know_ you feel like I do. So can we at least be civil about this and end on good terms?"

Yamcha clenched his jaw and balled his fists, his eyes turning red and glistening. "….Get the hell out."

It was Bulma's turn to stare at him like he was crazy, and she blinked rapidly as if it would undo what he said. "Excuse me?"

"Get the hell out Bulma! Did it ever occur to you that _you_ neglected _me_? That I could sense your own emotional detachment for the past month and a half? That stunt you pulled at your parent's house? No wonder I've been dating!"

"You can't be serious Yamcha."

"Oh-ho! I am!" He marched to the door in the kitchen and opened it, leaning against the door. "Get out."

Bulma studied his face, sucking in a tight breath of air. She should've expected this. Yamcha had never taken criticism well, and he never was great at admitting his own faults. Not that she was perfect, but at least she could admit it. She gathered her luggage and strode past him, stopping just in the doorway. "I really hope you can get over yourself, Yamcha. I'm not a saint, but I'm not the only sinner. Maybe one day we can talk about this like adults and—"

The door slammed in her face in place of his response. The afternoon wind caressed her tresses, kissing her cheeks for comfort. Inside, Bulma just felt empty, as if she was expecting a rush of emotions, but they never came, just tears streaming down her face at the overwhelming scenario. But as she intently looked at the glass window pane on the wood, Bulma vowed that it would be the last time she would cry over Yamcha.

oooOooo

_**A/N : I must say, I've really enjoyed reading your comments about her breaking up with Yamcha. You guys leave the best reviews. And now it is finished!** _

_**I hope this chapter came out well, it was difficult to really write it the way I saw it in my head (I wish there was no middle man for that, but I guess that takes the beauty out of writing?)** _

_**Thank you guys for your continued support of this story. It means a lot, and I love it and you guys!** _

_**Please R &R!** _

_**Until next time!** _


	13. Dine and Dash

_**Concerto Thirteen: Dine and Dash** _

oooOooo

Vegeta's thumb scrolled lazily over the screen of his phone, skimming past dozens of messages sent between him and Bulma. He gritted his teeth as he pretended not to care that he hadn't heard from her in two days. The blue speech bubble swallowing her text taunted him, making him grow angry at this unfamiliar sentiment. His bones ached with the reminder that she was an adult, and didn't need to spend every aching breath talking with him. Still, he couldn't help the nagging question of what went wrong that had made her cryptic message go unanswered by him.

 _We need to talk_.

But talk about what? Had she come to her senses and realized that they were just a fling, and nothing more, like he had unsuccessfully tried to tell himself? That they had gotten lost in a Tuesday through Friday haze, and on Saturday morning she woke up with clarity? He closed his messaging app, no longer wanting to be haunted by her weighted words, and slammed the phone face down on his office desk, blaming it for his own spiraled anxiety. Was she upset that he didn't respond? Should he have just explained that he didn't particularly enjoy deep conversations with this new wave of technology? Why was he berating himself at all? She wasn't a free woman, and judging by his own assessment of the kind of person he thought Yamcha to be, he wouldn't be surprised if he had found out and guilt tripped Bulma into ending their solicited affair.

The thought alone made him angry. For one, he thought Bulma was better than that. For two, why the hell should he care what a woman of her situation was doing? After all, _she_ had come on to him. _She_ popped in and out of his life daily, whispering words of passion that intertwined with the silk of his sheets, in the confines of his ear, in the plaster of his wall. He shouldn't give a damn at all if her own selfish desires had been a double edged sword, and yet here he sat, unable to conduct his own affairs because he was too busy chasing after a ghost.

He looked down at his planner, half filled out with his orchestra itinerary, the other half jotted with tiny red stars. Vegeta had started to map the days they spent together with the crimson symbol, as if in his own way to humanize their situation and remind himself that it wasn't a dream that he would wake up from, dripping in sweat and wondering what would happen if it were reality. No, Bulma was definitely the juiciest of fruits, and she seemed to enjoy the way her nectar rolled off of his chin in desperation, getting her own private chuckles as she watched him struggle with licking his lips clean of her remains.

Perhaps he should just call her. Was Vegeta N'Ouija that much of a coward that he would hide behind a veil of misery than to face the problem head on? A quiet voice echoed in his brain, questioning his motive for abandoning his true desire. He wanted to ignore it, but the phantom voice was relentless, asking in a sinister tone if he was really afraid of unpresented truths.

A knock on the door shook him out of his thoughts, and Vegeta slid the phone into a compartment of his desk, adjusting his planner to appear that he was busy working on important things and not fretting over a blue haired woman that lay behind the darkness of his eyelids. "What?"

The door creaked open, revealing Nappa to step through with an annoying grin and a six pack of bottled beer. Vegeta turned his nose up at the intruder and his gift, although his eyes slid to the orange wrapped beverage, knowing Nappa had probably spent his money on the finest of craft beer.

"Well it's a good thing I brought these," Nappa stomped to the empty chair in front of Vegeta's desk, plopping the beer bottles down, "You're pretty cranky this late morning."

Vegeta folded his arms as he sat back in his chair, his eyes and mouth tightening into slits. "What do you want, Nappa? It's too early for your nonsense," he nodded to the beers in front of him, "Or your _spirited_ suggestion."

"Oh take a load off," Nappa unscrewed a top of and handed a beer to Vegeta before repeating the gesture for himself, "What law says that beer can't be enjoyed at any hour? Furthermore, these are breakfast stouts, so drink, shut the hell up, and spend some time with good old Nappa."

Vegeta snorted, but brought the beer to his lips anyways, letting the robust flavor of oats and malt coat his tongue with delicacy. He looked at Nappa sternly yet silently, letting his eyes speak for him. Nappa sighed through his frothy moustache, leaning back in his chair, thankful that the seat was forgiving as it hugged his sturdy weight.

"So," Nappa's deep baritone of a voice sounded concerned, and Vegeta was compelled to withdraw from the entire conversation prematurely, "I'm sure you know I came to check on you. Haven't heard from you since the bar and the letter, and I'll be frank with you, Vegeta. I'm getting a little worried."

Vegeta shrugged his shoulders, instantly feeling like his teenaged self, who had to listen to the advice of 'good old Uncle Nappa' about why he shouldn't be so moody. "Worrying about me is a waste of time, Nappa. It'll do you good to remember that."

"Gods be damned, your stubbornness is infuriating," Nappa ran a palm over his smooth scalp and sighed, "Would it kill you to think of someone other than yourself for once? Don't act like I don't have a right to be concerned."

"You don't," Vegeta bit icily, " _You're_ not the one they want to harass. So why get yourself involved with something mundane?"

"Mundane?" Nappa rose an eyebrow and hunched over, leaning his weight against a knee, "Do you realize _what_ those assholes are capable of? In case you forgot, there's an entire cemetery full of reminders. Should I take you?"

Vegeta growled dangerously, like a dog signaling a warning that an enemy was getting too close and it was on the verge of attacking. Nappa sighed again, stroking his moustache and lowering his tone, as if the walls in Vegeta's office would incriminate them.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. But you have _got_ to take this more seriously, Vegeta. I don't find ease in sleeping at night and not knowing if you're next on the chopping block. Look around you," Nappa waved his hand around the confinements of the office, his eyes locking squarely with Vegeta's, "You've got all these great things happening for yourself. Do you really want to lose it all for the sake of your own pride?" Nappa took another swig of his beer and casted his eyes downward. "Do you really want to do that to that _woman_?" He slowly rolled his eyes back to Vegeta, his face serious.

A flash of heat surged through Vegeta's belly, making him almost choke on the beer that he was consuming. He had hoped that his eyes did not betray him, but judging from Nappa's knowing expression, he knew he had failed. He peeled his eyes away, drowning his frustrations with a swallow of booze, ignoring the intense stare of the bald man. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't give me that bullshit!" Nappa slammed his palm on desk, making the glass bottles rattle. "Natsubi told me she saw you and some beautiful woman with blue hair arm in arm in the art district, not too far from the shop. And the funny thing is as she was describing her, I couldn't help but point out the similarities of that woman that came in asking about you. I wouldn't be wrong in assuming she's the same, would I?"

Vegeta met him with silence, his eyes still pressed to an award of his that decorated the wall.

"Are you two dating?"

"That's none of your concern," he responded harshly, finally turning his attention to glare at Nappa, "What I do with my personal time is not your business."

"Vegeta…" Nappa blew out a breath, finishing his beer and placing it on the dark oak table, "Stop a second and think here. You _really_ think I want to be nosy about who's getting your dick wet? I don't! In fact, I'm happy as hell that you're finally giving someone other than your hand the time of day! But consider Yasai here-"

"Shut the fuck up, Nappa!"

"I most certainly won't! You need to hear the truth, goddamnit!" Nappa's eys burned with the fury of a father's, making Vegeta crawl back into his empty shell, "Yasai wasn't involved in _any_ of that shady business that your father was doing. None of it! All she wanted was to make sure that her children were alright and happy. But just her title, just the _association_ by marriage…" Nappa looked away, his eyes glossy, and licked his lips as he shook his head, "…I don't know anything about this woman, but could you stomach it if she met the same ending?"

The truth in Nappa's words hit Vegeta with the force of a sharpened sword, causing his oxygen to hitch in his throat. His breathing intensified as images flooded his mind, black and white and soaked with a blood red, playing like a film that he couldn't pause. Spectrums of blue began to creep in the haunting photos, and Vegeta clenched his eyes shut to rid himself of the torment. He could see her vividly; reaching out to him with her hypnotizing blue eyes and sultry fingers that promised to touch him in places that he deduced to phantom limbs. He felt himself reaching back, trying to pull her from the flames that began to lick at her alabaster skin.

"I'm not trying to upset you, Vegeta," Nappa whispered, "But I have to let you know the cards that you have in your hand. If you continue to play like you've got a royal deck, you're gonna fall flat on your ass when these guys reveal that all you've been carrying around is set of jokers. I don't want to see this loop-de-loop consume you."

Vegeta stubbornly looked at Nappa, not bothering to say anything as a rebuttal. Truth being told, he hadn't thought of how his affairs would involve Bulma. Everything up until now had only been about him, and no one else had to pay the price for his family's downfalls. But now he risked dragging her down with him, that is, if she was still willing to _be_ down with him.

If she did, he wouldn't let her fall victim. He had enough blood on his hands of a woman that he couldn't protect. He would be damned if he soiled his flesh again with another.

"All I'm saying is," Nappa opened another beer, "Take care of it. Before _they_ take care of _you._ "

Vegeta nodded robotically, his mind long gone from the present, and opened the compartment to gather his phone. He stood abruptly, causing Nappa to stare at him curiously. Vegeta ignored him, instead mumbling, "I need to make a phone call," before leaving swiftly through the office door and making his way out of the theater and into the alleyway.

oooOooo

The sun bathed him in an inferno, and Vegeta loosened the collar of his button up to let his skin breathe. Sweat beads raced down the sharp curve of his neck, pooling just around the first button, the rest of the fabric sticking tightly to his muscles like a second skin. Spring had shown up with fury, and made no effort to hide the sun's wrath. Ducking into a sliver of a shadow, Vegeta pulled up Bulma's contact information and dialed, pressing the phone to his ear before he had a chance to argue his reasoning.

She picked up by the third ring, her voice breathy as if she was engaging in cardio, and he felt his knees go numb as her silky tone tickled his ear. She could get anything she wanted, talking to him like that.

"Vegeta!" She sung his name with purpose, almost as if she had been waiting to speak it and wake her bones from the dead, and he cleared his throat to erase his neediness of wanting to hear it again. "I was worried you would never call me back. I thought I'd have to stalk you at the theater or something."

He rolled his eyes and shifted his weight so that his body leaned against the brick wall, his shoulder cradling the phone. "Well you must like living dangerously. You'd stalk the man you're screwing in front of the man you call a lover. I don't know whether to be flattered or disappointed."

There was silence on her end, and he immediately wondered if he said the wrong thing. This was new to him, having to be nice when being choppy and sarcastic was _so_ much easier, and he swallowed hard as he searched through the silence for a hint that she was still in this.

"Vegeta, I…" he could hear her chewing over her words as if she was tasting overcooked meat, and he wanted to tell her she didn't need to compliment him for the fuck of it.

"Bulma," he cut her off, impatient with her beating around the bush, "I don't do the whole 'read between the lines' spiel. Either spit it out, or don't bring it up at all."

She clicked her teeth, and he would bet his last dollar that she was biting down on her bottom lip, the skin threatening to bleed as it turned a cherry shade of red, closing her eyes tightly as she allowed the words to climb the ladder in the back of her throat. On cue, she breathed and jumbled out, "I did it."

A train announced its arrival as it sped on the tracks above him, causing the ground to croak. He blamed it on the horn for asking her to repeat herself, even if he did it for his own clarity.

"I said," she obliged, breathing heavily again, "I did it."

"Did what?" He unfastened another button as his body burnt up again, even though the shadows kissed his skin lightly.

"I broke up with Yamcha. For good."

His words caught in a tumble, and he racked his brain to find a perfect reply that would suit them both. Vegeta's demons had long since threatened him not to speak too soon; for fear that he would taint all purity with his own wicked tongue.

"Vegeta? Are you there?"

Something in her tone sounded desperate, begging him to validate her claims. But what should he say? Inside, he was a mixture of emotions. In his thirty years of life, Vegeta had never found himself in this sort of situation with a woman before. They had come around for his handsome looks and his mysterious demeanor, but when they grew frustrated at not being able to chisel away his layers of cement, he made no efforts to stop them. Bulma was different, however, because her layers were just as solid and just as unforgiving. And for the first time -with any human- Vegeta felt that she could chip away at his unease, and he with hers.

But how could he formulate that into words?

"How do you feel about that?" He croaked out, feeling uneasy at the thought of being transparent.

"Honestly?" She chuckled, and he wished she was in front of him so that he could watch her face illuminate the shadowed alleyway, "I don't know what to feel. I mean, I don't regret it, if that's what you're asking."

"I am." Where that came from, he didn't know, but it was asked anyways.

"Well, you don't have to wonder about that. Yamcha and I weren't even on the same page, let alone the same book. And there are only so many words you can write before you have to announce the end," she sighed and he could tell she moved the receiver closer to her mouth, "Besides, I think I'm done with someone writing my pages for me. I have my own ink available, and my own words to say."

Vegeta wasn't a fan of analogies, and it seemed that's how anyone ever wanted to converse with him, but he found that hiding between metaphors made it easier to speak his mind. "And what is the content of your book? If you're going to be an author, you need to make the words captivating."

She breathed laughter in the phone, making his stomach float like fizz on a soft drink. "Let's see, how about we call chapter one 'Rebirth'?"

"Sounds fitting. If anyone needed to be born again, it's definitely you."

"You're such an asshole."

"I'm not trying to be," he admitted, "But I like the new you better."

"Oh," she smiled into the receiver, causing his lips to curve along with her, but he quickly rectified it, not wanting to be _that_ guy, "Well, then you would enjoy this chapter very much. It'll talk about me finding my way artistically again, and how I feel like I'm full of possibilities like some silly children's book about princesses." There was a pause, and he knew she was idling over her words again, which is what he was learning she liked to do before she made a confession. "And there will be a prince there, but he won't sweep me off my feet and carry me away to some tower. Instead he'll kick me in the ass when I need it, and he'll touch me in a way that sets my soul on fire, like my skin is going to burst with colors."

Vegeta stood a little straighter, holding his phone properly again, and watched as some kid kicked a ball at the opposite end of the alley. "He doesn't sound like a prince at all."

"No I guess not. But I guess I've never been the type to need someone like that, huh? Either way, he's necessary for the book, and I'm hoping to find a way to introduce him in later chapters."

"I'm sure you'll find a way," he said in a hushed tone, "You definitely seem like you'll need lots more swift kicks in the ass."

"Oh _ha ha_. Kettle, meet pot. But enough about books and analogies and things that I haven't learned since the sixth grade."

Oh thank _god_.

"Can I come over tonight? After you're done with rehearsal?"

There it was. The feeling that settled in his chest, somewhat territorial and prideful, that let him know that she wasn't just using him for her own sexual desires. In a way he had hoped that she _would_ ; that she didn't want to be around him in any other way than her cheeks flushed and her orgasm intense. But she reached out to him after the breakup, making him aware that her words weren't just pillow side chatter.

It scared the shit out of him, but it also made him feel relaxed in a way that was lost upon him.

"I'll call you when I get home. You can come any time after that."

"Well I'm sure I'll be _coming_ many times after that."

"You're so crude, Bulma."

"And you like it, Vegeta. I'll see you later, okay? I'm finishing moving the last of my stuff in my parent's house and I don't want to look sweaty _before_ you give me a reason to."

"Goodbye, Bulma."

"Bye!" She sang it so sweetly in his ear that he chuckled before he could stop himself, and he brought his phone down to stare at it as her name dissolved back into his lock screen. The phone dimmed black and soon he was gazing at his own reflection, and he tore his eyes away from it finally. It was only then, after he looked up, that he noticed that this was the alleyway where they first met, when she was just a mad woman kicking a wall and insulting him, and he was a man with a golden lighter, who was unknowingly about to enter what he considered to be the happiest time of his life.

oooOooo

There were three truths that Vegeta was undeniably certain of as he conducted his rehearsal following that afternoon. Nappa was gone, taking his fatherly concern with him, leaving Vegeta once again in the power trope that he had grown familiarly comfortable with.

One: Goku, when satisfied after being proven right about something, made the ugliest grin that Vegeta had ever seen. He couldn't peel his eyes away from the man as his fingers danced with his baton in a rhythmic waltz, watching how the corners of his lips rose to kiss his eyelashes as he entered in the final bars of his revised piece. Goku glanced from his sheet music to meet Vegeta's eyes once, his eyes glinting with secrets that Vegeta wanted to scream he had no parts of. It was only then that he paid attention to the rest of the orchestra as they played over the new notes curiously, like babies taking their first steps. He slowly watched their faces one by one, wanting to take note of who eased into the new rendition seamlessly, and who cursed the conductor for changing things so close to the concert.

Which brought him to truth number two: As much as Vegeta hated to admit how much the man's talent affected the orchestra, Yamcha's brooding was really affecting the cello section's performance. While the man was in no way ready to handle the reigns as the first chair, Yamcha had a way of ribboning the trust that each player spilled from their strings. A not-quite-leader-but-still-a-cheerleader kind of musician. But his notes today mocked his mood: pathetic. He didn't need clairvoyance to know the other cello players picked up on the flat notes and half assed bow strings that Yamcha was producing; once in a while it seemed like they would lose their way as they waited for him to (putting it plainly) get his shit together. Vegeta growled as he spent more time than he would have liked to trying to get them back on key, but the brooding man was relentless in his lackluster playing. A part of Vegeta wanted to scream at him to shape up or ship out, and the other part of him wanted to tell him to grow a pair and move on, even if he _was_ the cause of his demeanor. No parts of Vegeta felt sorry for him, but he didn't want to sit by and watch his piece wilt away like dying rosebuds before autumn.

Despite Yamcha's terrible performance, the play through went smoothly - well smooth enough that Vegeta felt hopeful that it could all tie in together before the concert, and before the scout from Broadway rained down his mighty fist of judgement. Goku wiped his brow as Vegeta circled his fist for the ending, feeling like a god signaling the end of a heavy storm.

"That's what I was talking about, Vegeta!" Goku wailed, slamming his bow on his stand with an enthusiastic grin that threatened to split his face into two, "It was perfect in every way!"

Vegeta hummed in reply, feeling grateful for the compliment, but he would not show the brute his satisfaction. Otherwise, Goku might feel inclined to always insert his two cents where it wasn't needed, or worse, consider them to be allies of the same accord.

"You know," Krillin placed his viola in his lap and scratched the tiny hairs that sprouted from the top of his head, making him look more like a vegetable ready for the picking rather than a person, "I never realized it before, but the new ending _does_ fit the overall piece better."

"I agree with him," the violinist with the weird name-18-and her icy voice seemed to shatter as she spoke up with Krillin, which Vegeta was taking notice that she was doing a lot more lately when the short man had something to say, "The ending felt so bland before. But now…it's not as bland."

Vegeta pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, reigning in his irritation with a tight leash. "Well as _invigorating_ as the compliment was, 18, we don't need to go around the room and play _assess the piece_. Just play it like your lives depend on it and I'll take it as the best criticism you all could muster."

"Aww come on, Vegeta!" Goku stretched his arms out, resembling a phoenix preparing to grace the sky with its majestic presence, "You should feel proud that we all like it so much! It has that delicate ending that I told you was missing!"

"And why do you think I need to be told that?" Vegeta was _this_ close to telling them to pack up their instruments and go home for the sole purpose of saving his sanity, "Like I said, the real response comes in how well you play the music. If you like it so much, then show me." He let his eyes roll directly towards Yamcha, who didn't flinch under the heavy gaze.

"We will," Tien turned in his chair to face Yamcha as well, his face clearly pissed off, "And we'll get it together by _tomorrow_ , right Yamcha?"

"Me?!" Yamcha's brows met in the middle like they were preparing to duel, his jaw gone slack with surprise, "Why are you two calling me out?!"

"Oh come on," Tien rolled his eyes, his tone sounding bored with his not yet spoken explanation, "I _know_ you're better than that garbage you were spewing out. Look me in the eyes and tell me that you think that was the best you can do."

"I think I did great!" Yamcha hugged his cello defensively, clenching his bow at his side so tightly the strings threatened to snap all together, "Maybe it was _you_ , huh Tien?!"

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am! You spent so much time focusing on me, maybe you didn't realize it was your weak skills that was holding us back."

Tien shook his head and pressed his lips together, looking down on Yamcha as if he was an insect that needed to be squashed. "I'm going to just pretend that you're having some sort of bad day, and I'll let that comment slide for now. But grow up, man, and be professional about it. We don't need to suffer because you're throwing a tantrum."

 _That_ , among many reasons, reminded Vegeta why Tien deserved to be first chair.

"I think I have to agree with Tien, Yamcha," Goku scratched his head and shrugged his shoulders apologetically, "Something seems _off_ with you today. Usually you play like you have a point to prove, but today you played like an amateur. You wanna talk about it? We're all friends here."

"Speak for yourself, Kakarot," Vegeta grit his teeth, "I am not a psychologist, I am a musician. I don't want to sit here and play therapy because some of you are struggling with adequacy."

"But aren't we a tree, Vegeta?" Goku frowned sadly, as if Vegeta had told him he was no longer allowed to play any instrument in his life again, "We're all roots here, and if one root is having trouble holding the tree up, it'll just fall over."

"If I have to hear _one more damned metaphor_ …" Vegeta mumbled, shaking his head furiously.

"You want to talk, Goku!?" Yamcha spun around in his chair, knocking his cello against the stand forcefully, "Fine, I'll bite. Let's talk about how unfair it is that _Vegeta_ changes the score at the last damned second and gets all pissy when we can't live up to his unrealistic standards."

"Yamcha," Goku said worriedly, "I don't think that's the best-"

"No, no, Kakarot," Vegeta folded his arms and smirked at Yamcha challengingly, "Let the man speak his mind. Perhaps I do have time to play therapist after all."

"All I'm saying," Yamcha turned his attention to Vegeta, unable to mask the irritation that stole his face, "Is that maybe _we're_ not the problem. Maybe it's you and your oversized ego."

"Is that what you think, boy?" Vegeta could no longer stifle in his laughter, throwing his head back and letting his chest vibrate as the sounds curled out of his mouth like a snake, "You're acting like a child and _I'm_ to blame?"

"I don't think Vegeta's the problem here," Krillin, to Vegeta's surprise, came to his defense unnecessarily, although it added to the dark humor that underlined the argument, "I think he did a good job making music that gives us all a chance to shine. And the new ending feels like it fits perfectly, like everyone in some story got what they wanted after all."

Goku's face rivaled the sun as he smiled widely. "That's exactly what I said!"

"Are you guys _serious_!?" Yamcha stood up, abandoning his cello as is fell to the ground in a grand finale, "You're sticking up for _Vegeta_ of all people!? You guys know he works us to the bone, and now he's switching things up and getting mad at _me_ for stepping blindly into the waters?! I thought we were friends!"

"We _are_ friends Yamcha, but we're also adults," Goku stepped closer to the cello section, hoping to intervene, "And adults should be able to handle criticism. You're a great musician, but you could do better than what you did today."

Yamcha stared at his close friend incredulously, his eyes as void as the emptiness of midnight, and huffed. "Un-fucking-believable. First Bulma, and now you two." He turned around to pick up his cello, mumbling curses under his breath, "You know what, fuck this. I don't need this today. I'm going home. I'm sick of people turning their backs on me for some other guy."

Vegeta's patience was wearing thin, and watching a member of his own orchestra throw in the towel so quickly under pressure made his next sentence very easy to say. "Yamcha, if you walk out of the door with this tantrum, don't bother coming back to rehearsal tomorrow. I can easily manage without you."

Yamcha stared at Vegeta in a face off as silence thundered over the rehearsal room. He shoved his cello in its case and stormed out, letting the loud slam of the door convey his reply. Vegeta took a deep breath as he realized the weight of truth number three:

Yamcha was a piece of shit.

oooOooo

Bulma smelled like a September breeze and fresh seawater as she cradled her head under Vegeta's chin, sighing in satisfaction as she stretched her limbs across his broad chest. He took the opportunity to rest a hand in the dip of her curves with ease, feeling the weight of irritation that blanketed his shoulders dissipating with every breath that escaped her lungs.

"You're so quiet today, Vegeta," she placed a small kiss at the base of his neck and looked up at him, "Is everything okay?"

"Hmph," he turned his eyes away from her to stare at the ceiling, thinking of other ways he'd rather get naked, "Why don't you ask your ex-boyfriend if everything is okay."

"Oh god," Bulma sat up so that she hovered over him, her sapphire eyes glinting with concern and frustration, "You told him about us? I mean, I don't care but I figured you'd at least let me know first before you told him we're screwing around."

"I would have to have a sliver of respect for him to tell him what I'm doing in my personal time," Vegeta slit his eyes as he turned to face her, "So that thought shouldn't even cross your mind. What he's _doing_ is acting like a heartbroken child who can't control his emotions. He left rehearsal after throwing a tantrum so I kicked him out of the orchestra."

"Oh no," Bulma sighed, moving to the edge of the bed and letting her legs fall over the side like running water, "I knew he was going to be up in arms about the situation, but I never thought he'd throw away his career like that." She shook her head as blue tendrils delicately fell over her face. She bit her lip and pouted sincerely, her big eyes appearing innocent as they shone with pity. "I'm sorry, Vegeta."

"Tch," he turned his head again, not wanting her to catch the heat that rose to his cheeks, "Don't apologize. Just choose better boyfriends next time and don't settle. Otherwise you'll have an entire city of men-children."

"Choose better boyfriends, huh?" She smiled, and Vegeta cursed himself as he realized the error of his words, "You mean like…you?"

"That's not what I said, Bulma."

"No, don't you do that," she stretched her body easily, straddling her legs over his torso and placing her hands against his pectorals, "I think this is a conversation we should have. You and I both know this is a little more than just us fucking." She used a finger to trace the outline of his chest like a little girl who was afraid to ask for a cookie before dinner, her eyes hidden under her thick bangs. "I'm not asking that we jump immediately into a relationship or anything, but…what do you want from this?"

Vegeta felt his heart beat ruthlessly in his chest, his tongue turning into cement. He knew how to answer her, but he couldn't form a tangible sentence enough to satisfy her curiosity.

Thankfully enough, it seemed as if she was starting to get used to the way that he operated, because she took a deep breath and added: "How about I just say what I want, and you can tell me if you agree."

His eyes slid to her pretty face, and he found solace as he drank her in. Falling under her spell for the umpteenth time, he nodded.

"Well…" she bit her lip, and he knew a confession was brewing, "I…I _like_ you, Vegeta. I think you're the most complicated man I've ever met, and you don't open up at all and sometimes talking to you is the equivalent of speaking to the wind," she leaned down so that her chest pressed against his, relaxing her head in her hand as she placed an elbow by his ear, "But I also think that you're passionate, and you bring out the passion in me. I think you're smart, and not just in a classical way, but in a tactile way. And I just like being around you. I felt suffocated with Yamcha, but with you I can _breathe_."

Vegeta studied her face carefully, his mouth opened quizzically without his knowledge, and he waited for her to laugh and tell him that she was kidding and she couldn't deal with his emotional deficiency. It never came, and he found himself anxious for her to carry on.

"If you want this to be a sexual thing, then I guess I can manage for the time being, but I'm afraid I'll probably just like you more. And we're still getting to know each other, so I'm not asking you to stop everything and be my boyfriend, but maybe one day we can get there? So I guess I'm just saying that I'd like to…to _date_ you."

Vegeta couldn't manage to stop looking at her. Her eyes searched his face for some sort of reply, but he was getting lost in the blue water of her irises, like he was a man dying of thirst and wanted to drink it all up.

"What does that require," he said in an almost whisper, " _Dating_?"

She shrugged her shoulders and looked down towards the bed sheets, playing with the red fabric as she maneuvered it between her fingers. "I don't know, I don't really think you _need_ to define it. We just…enjoy each other's company. And hang out like we've been doing, just…" she glided her eyes up towards his, " _exclusively_."

Exclusively? Well, that wouldn't be a problem. After all, Vegeta quickly ran down a list of women he had a semblance of interest in outside of a quick assessment of their looks, and he came up with one name.

Hers.

"So….?" Her lips pillowed together in a perfect circle and she leaned in closer, "Is that okay?"

Vegeta sat up and scooted away from her, his feet touching the carpet on the other end of his bed. He could feel Bulma burning a stare into the back of his neck with the heat of a million suns, and he subconsciously grabbed it to prevent his skin from deteriorating. He walked to his closet, his back still to her, and ruffled through it for a fresh pair of clothes. Finally he turned around, watching her face cling on to her last shred of dignity at his lack of a reply.

Deciding not to torment her any further, he spoke. "Get dressed, Bulma."

Her eyebrows rose to her hairline as she parted her lips, her words getting caught in the tangle of her breaths. "Are you kicking me out?"

"No," he replied, finding a black button up shirt that was more formal than what he normally wore, "I'm asking you to get dressed. I'll be honest, I haven't dated much, but from my understanding, doesn't that typically involve dinner?"

He didn't need to turn around to see her face light up like an overly decorated Christmas tree, nor was he surprised when dainty arms wrapped around his neck and lips pressed to his skin wetly. She giggled in his ear before sauntering off to the bathroom, grabbing her overnight bag full of essentials that he didn't think she needed.

He waited for the bathroom door to close all the way, and when he felt like the coast was clear, Vegeta finally smiled.

oooOooo

Vegeta tried to remember the last time he had dined at _L'ultima Cena_ , a quaint Italian restaurant that requires months of planning to get a reservation, but came up empty.

The bright sign basked them in a welcoming glow of light, the tiny bulbs inside of the letters made the restaurant stand out on the street that was otherwise bathed in darkness. Bulma's blue hair was even more electrifying, and Vegeta would bet his entire meal that every car that whizzed past them slowed down momentarily to get a good look at her. With her figure hugging red, sleeveless dress and matching lip color, she was _stunning_. On the ride over, he even slipped up and managed to tell her so before redirecting his eyes on the road, his hands gripping his steering wheel as if it could take back the words.

"We're eating _here_?" She asked, looking at the long line that curved the entrance, a plethora of disappointed faces pretending not to steal glances at the attractive duo. "Vegeta, I don't think we'll be able to even get a seat at the bar."

He huffed and placed his hand on the small of her back, leading her past the line of dining hopefuls, much to their dismay and comments. He ignored them all, telling himself that now wasn't the time for his blade of a tongue, and took them straight towards the entrance, stopping at the booth just in front of the glass doors.

The host didn't bother to look up at them until Vegeta cleared his throat, and even then he gave them only a hint of his attention before scribbling something back on his notepad. "The line starts back there, and there is a two hour wait for a seat at our luxurious bar," he drawled out like a television script, "And please understand that you may not be able to dine in tonight. To best avoid this issue, it is advised that an RSVP is made at least a month prior."

Vegeta's jawline tightened and he avoided looking at Bulma's 'I-told-you-so' gaze. He cleared his throat again, this time with more authority. "Broly," he said in a deep voice, making the host whip his head up immediately.

Broly narrowed his eyes under the warm glow of the inside of the restaurant, and a small hint of recognition settled in the soft glimmer of his irises. "Mr. N'Ouija?"

Vegeta nodded, puffing his chest out with pride. A smile crept on the corners of the host's face, and he stood a little straighter and put his pen down with finality. "Wow, I haven't seen you here in _years_! Not since…well…you know…"

"I would like a table for two, Broly. I believe that my family has never required a reservation here."

"O-of course not," Broly flipped the pages of the hardcover reservation book, scratching out a name and writing _Vegeta_ _and_ _co_. in its place. "But we _are_ pretty full tonight. The only available seats we have are in the V.I.P area, and I know how much you hate it up there."

Hate was an understatement. Vegeta couldn't stand being in a room full of people who probably made a little too much on this week's paycheck and chose to come here to brag about it. They were loud and boisterous, and he preferred a quiet meal. But the promise of veal Marsala and a good Chianti wine sounded salivating, and he had already driven this far out into the city.

"That'll do."

Broly nodded and whispered something to another host behind him, turning back and smiling with a charm that wasn't there originally. He raked his eyes over Bulma from head to toe, before settling his gaze on Vegeta. "Well," he said impressed, "I guess we can't expect anything less than perfect from a N'Ouija."

Bulma chuckled and smiled at him and he pretended not to see. But truth be told, it felt oddly satisfying having her in his company like this, as if his own personal stamp of _'Mine'_ was all over her. People could stare all they wanted to; she was _his_ date for the evening.

They were led up a stairway that was draped away from the rest of the diners, suffocating them immediately with the smell of overpriced cigars. Bulma's eyes drank in the entire establishment as they sat down, the waiters bombarding them with various menus and specials, even though neither one was really paying attention.

"I've _never_ eaten here, Vegeta. And you're so popular," she smirked as she ran her eyes over the menu, resting her chin in the palm of her hand, "What do you recommend?"

"I only order the Veal Marsala," he folded his menu and handed back to the eager waiter, "and a bottle of Chianti. You order whatever you like."

"Oh my," she mimicked his actions and folded her menu too, giving it to the waiter, "For someone who's never really dated before, you're doing a hell of a job." She turned her attention to the waiter, giving Vegeta time to study her sharp but delicate jawline and her swan like neck. "I'll have the same, please."

The scrawny waiter nodded and shuffled away, leaving them alone over a dimly lit candle. Bulma placed her chin on the back of her hand, flashing Vegeta a smile that would make any lightbulb jealous. He fidgeted with his pant leg and looked down, feeling uncomfortable with how comfortable she made him.

"You are really something," she teased, "The only man I've ever met that likes to show off but doesn't take a compliment."

"It's not _showing_ off," he glared at her, "I've eaten here many times in the past. The food is good and it's the only time I'll waste money on a meal that isn't homemade. Just because you'll eat food slopped in grease and batter doesn't make me a show off."

"Touché," she giggled and turned her focus back on the restaurant, taking in the atmosphere, "But in all seriousness, this is lovely. I never really got to do things like this in my past relationship."

"Well it's like I said: pick better boyfriends."

"Maybe I did this time." He watched the smile die from her lips as her expression turned serious, and the glimmer of her eyes spoke more than her words ever could. Even in his discomfort, Vegeta found it hard to look away from her. He'd be okay, he decided, if he had more nights like this that involved her.

The scrawny waiter approached their table again, carrying a tray of a single glass of a white wine. He sat it in front of Bulma and smiled. "Excuse me madam, but this drink is courtesy of the gentlemen in the table at the far corner. They send it to you with compliments of your beauty."

Bulma hesitantly looked back and forth between the waiter and Vegeta, before ultimately pushing the drink across the velvet table cloth, an apologetic smile stealing her lips. "Tell them thank you but no thank you. Insist to them that I'm with my _date_."

Inside, Vegeta was enthused at how quickly she turned the offer down. On the outside, he sternly watched the waiter saunter back to the table, trying to catch the faces of the men that were painted in the shadows.

"And you say _I'm_ popular, " he scoffed, taking a sip of his water, "We haven't even been here for twenty minutes and you're already being wined and dined."

She waved him off and eyed the bottle of wine they ordered as it was placed in front of them. The second waiter began to pour their glasses when the scrawny one made his way back to them again, his face completely drained of color. He leaned in close and whispered something to his fellow worker, and Vegeta watched as the second one's face fell flat as he stepped back.

"U-umm, pardon me again madam, but the table in back _insists_ that you take this wine," he sat it down in front of her again, ignoring her slanted brows and pursed lips, "So please take it on the house."

"I believe the lady said that she doesn't want it," Vegeta scowled at the waiter as a fire stormed in his chest, threatening to seep through his pores, "So take it back to the table _now._ "

"Mr. N'Ouija," the waiter's eyes pleaded towards Vegeta, trying to whisper a secret that his quivering lips couldn't say, "I would do that if I were _able_ , sir, but they _insist_."

"I don't care _what_ they insist, she won't accept it. Now send it back before you have an issue with _me_."

"Vegeta…" Bulma warned, keeping her voice low.

"Sir," the waiter licked his lips and leaned in closely, and Vegeta could tell that he was trying to keep his composure, " _Please_ accept it. I understand that she doesn't want it, but I'm begging you, don't get me in trouble with them. They won't like it if I come back with the wine."

Vegeta narrowed his eyes, studying the waiter meticulously. Finally he stood, reaching across the table and grabbing the glass. "I'll handle this." He brushed past the man, making his way towards the table and trying to see through the darkness.

How dare this asshole interrupt his date with his persistence? Vegeta ran through a list of insults that he planned on using against the man, knowing that he would scare them so well they would be buying _him_ a drink. He curved around a waitress carrying a large tray, mere steps away from the table.

And he froze.

A group of men in powerful business suits sat in a huddled circle, smoking on cigars, the smoke curling out of their mouths like vines, drinking what looked to be the most expensive wine in the establishment. In the center of the smoky haze sat the shortest of them all, his dark lips curving into a smile. Vegeta swallowed; the man laughed.

"Why, hello Vegeta," he sang, resting his chin on the back of his hand just as Bulma had previously done. He eyed the wine that was cradled between Vegeta's fingers and pouted, dramatically rolling his eyes back to his face. "Are you bringing my gift back to me? I'm offended! I thought she would enjoy the delicate fruity flavor." The man took a drink of his own wine, which Vegeta assumed was the same as the one that he carried. "She is _lovely_ , Vegeta. I'm impressed. She has the same beauty as your mother. You know what they say, we're all chasing after our parents in _one_ way or another." His lips smirked dangerously, the men around him laughing in a low, threatening tone.

Vegeta ran his eyes over them one by one, his chest rapidly rising and falling, his heart beating like a metronome. He locked eyes with the man in the middle again before turning away all together, moving back to Bulma as fast as his feet would let him. He didn't miss the man cackling behind him, however, nor did he miss his words:

"A pity. I'll be seeing you around, Vegeta. I do hope your date enjoys the wine."

Vegeta slammed the glass on the table as soon as he arrived, spilling small droplets around the plates of veal that had arrived in his absence. Bulma looked at him in bewilderment, her words caught on her tongue. Gently, but with enough force to move her, he grabbed her by the elbow and stood her up. "I'll make this up to you Bulma, but we've got to go right now."

"Wh-what?" Bulma dropped her fork against her plate, prompting other patrons to look their way in judgement as it rattled loudly, "What's going on? The food just got here!"

"I saw a rat," he said through clenched teeth, helping her down the stairs, "A _giant_ rat that made me lose my appetite."

"Eww!" she shrieked, covering her mouth, "That's disgusting!"

He hummed in reply, maneuvering them past the curtain and through the entrance. He stopped at the host's booth and burned a glare into Broly's face, feeling like a rabid dog without a leash.

"Did you know?!" He pointed an accusatory finger back at the establishment, trying to contain his anger.

Broly's eyes widened and he stepped back. "I-I'm sorry, Mr. N'Ouija," he stammered, "I-I'm not allowed to disclose patrons of the V.I.P section. I'm sure you understand _why_."

Vegeta pressed his stare into Broly for seconds longer before briskly walking away, his hand still placed on Bulma's elbow. He led them to the car, but Bulma stopped them just short of the doors.

"Hey, Vegeta!" She released her elbow and moved closer to him, resting her hand against his cheek, "What's going on? All this excitement over a rat?"

Vegeta swallowed roughly, trying to capture the right words to say in the spaces of his teeth, studying the depths of Bulma's eyes to see how much she trusted him. "Bulma," he said in a hushed tone, "Would you trust me if I said I can't tell you right now, and just let the matter drop?"

She studied his face, her mouth hanging open with questions that he knew she wanted to ask. Of course she would, and he wouldn't blame her. " _Please_ ," he begged, which was something Vegeta N'Ouija did _not_ do, "Just trust me on this."

She sighed, stroking his cheek with her palm and nodded. "Okay. I don't know what's going on, but okay. I'll take a chance and trust you. But you at least owe me a pizza or something." She smiled, and he could tell it was done in a manner to alleviate his troubles, but his anxiety was running high, threatening to erupt like a volcano. The only sense of calm was her skin on his, providing warmth on the chilly night.

He nodded in acceptance, taking in the way her skin sparkled marvelously against the restaurant sign. Before he lost his nerve, he placed a finger under her chin and kissed her, letting truths spill from his tongue into hers. She sighed into his mouth, and he knew she felt the difference in this kiss, softer than the ones the previously shared, but she melted into his chest like chocolate too close to fire.

Uncaring about the audience of the line against the restaurant, he kissed her again, under the brilliance of the moonlight, unaware of a set of eyes that watched them across the street.

oooOooo

_**A/N** _

_**It took 13 chapters, but now we're moving into the 'heart' of what I have planned for this story. (I think this is the longest chapter yet!)** _

_**Thank you guys so, so, SO much for the reviews last chapter ( and in general!) It makes my day everytime I get an email :)** _

_**If you enjoyed this chapter, please Rate and Review! I really encourage reviews!** _

_**Until next time my friends!** _


	14. Shall I Stay?  (Would it be a Sin?)

_**Concerto Fourteen: Shall I Stay? (Would it be a Sin?)** _

oooOooo

The first thought to register in her mind as she awoke was how soft the sheets were. Like pure satin, almost as if they were spun by gods themselves, rubbing against her bare legs delicately. It made her smile as she stretched, poking her head out of the cocoon of blankets she enveloped herself in the night before. The sun kissed her skin welcomingly, serenading her out of bed. She obliged, rubbing her eyes and yawning. It took her a moment to realize that the sheets didn't add up to the small, but sturdy, couch in her parent's basement. Her eyes sprang open as realization settled that she was in Vegeta's room, clearly unable to make it home after a night of pizzas and beers and wine.

She turned to the bed space next to her, only to find it empty. A small dip weighed down the pillow, the only indicator that Vegeta had actually slept there. She reached out and touched it, almost as if it was the only reminder she had left of him.

"Vegeta?" She called, stretching her limbs and getting to her feet, making her way towards the living room. Sleep still tugged on the edges of her brain, but at his lack of a response, she blinked away the fuzz. "Vegeta? Where are you?" Silence answered her, so she trudged along to the kitchen, nearly bumping into the dining table as she rounded the corner.

An aluminum covered plate was set precisely in the center, a white note on top. Even the way Vegeta organized was very meticulous, a stark cry from the messy harmony that was Bulma. It showed he was honest in the way he lived his life, settling for no less than well executed results. Perfection was in everything he touched, even perfectly displayed plates that smelled _really_ good.

She lifted the note as she uncovered the lid, stealing a piece of bacon from the plate as she read the words.

_You slept past your alarm and past my constant screaming. In a real emergency, I worry for you. I wanted to avoid getting slapped in the face by your graceful sleeping movements any further, so I decided to let you sleep in. Hopefully the breakfast isn't too cold by the time you wake up, but you're a smart woman, the microwave shouldn't be too complicated. If you're up for it, I'd like to have dinner here tonight. I will talk with you later._

_-Vegeta_

A gleeful smile stole her face and she ceased her chewing, reading the words once again. While far from romantic by any conventional standards, something told Bulma that Vegeta wasn't the type to just leave letters with date inquiries. Being around Vegeta had such a natural ease that she hadn't felt before, like she was simply moving a leg to walk or using her hands to create. She welcomed the feeling and a little something extra, adding a little pep in her step as she turned on Vegeta's record player and danced through her breakfast.

oooOooo

Bulma pulled into the driveway of Capsule Corps, the wind teasing her tresses through the sun roof. Getting back into the gist of painting meant that she had little time to spend with her father and the smart home, and she promised him that today would be reserved to help him in that endeavor. And thanks to Vegeta's lovely wakeup, she was in good spirits to get some science done.

She opened the door and stepped out, adjusting her black pants to her hip. The delay caused her not to hear the footsteps from behind her as they approached, only drawing her attention as a deep voice whispered her name.

"Bulma."

She turned around alarmed, and instantly became face to face with Yamcha. His shaggy hair was tucked under a baseball cap, a bouquet of flowers in his grasp. His mouth drifted outwards into a awkward grin, and he extended an arm forward. Bulma moved backwards towards her car instinctively, not wanting him in her immediate personal space.

"Hey B," he said softly, his eyes attempting to lighten his broody face, "You're looking nice today, as always."

Bulma folded her arms and placed them under her chest, pursing her lips. "Yamcha," she sighed, "What are you doing here?"

His lips circled as if he had something to say, but it was clear his words tangled in the back of his throat, and instead he looked towards the ground, trying not to choke. "I needed to see you, B. I….I miss you."

Bulma straddled the line of pity and annoyance as she looked at her ex, trying to puzzle together the reason for his arrival. Not that she was complaining or needing of it, but Yamcha hadn't bothered to call her or text her at all since the breakup, and while she was too busy with Vegeta to care, the fact that he thought he could just _show_ _up_ like this out of nowhere unnerved her.

"Yamcha, whatever it is you think you're doing, I really suggest that you stop."

His face fell, eyes begging for sympathy as they rolled up her frame until locking contact with her. "You can't be serious, Bulma," he shook his head, extending the flowers from his chest, "After all these years together, practically a lifetime, you're just going to walk away? I mean, I let you have your little time off and all, but when are you coming home?"

Bulma scoffed and looked towards the sky, watching as clouds that were appropriating animals came together in a happy unison, a very different mood than she was experiencing now. "I'm not," she said finally, turning her head down to look at him, "I'm not coming home, Yamcha. I mean what I said."

Yamcha pressed his mouth together tightly, sucking on the insides of his cheeks like Bulma knew he did when he was angry, and he took a step closer to her. "What is _so_ bad about what we had that you feel like you needed to end it for good? Because I see all the potential you have?! Because I give a damn about where you're going in life?!"

"You don't see me!" Her voice took flight like a bird learning to fly, unsure and unsteady but holding on to firm belief, "You see a reflection of who you want me to be! And I can't be that person for you, Yamcha. Not anymore."

"You make me out to be this… this _villain_ , Bulma!" Yamcha dropped the flowers and pleaded with his arms, the theatrics of his emotions playing out over his facial features. "All I ever did was love you! How am I the bad guy because all I did was love you!?"

Bulma pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to keep her own reactions to a minimum. Yamcha was stirring up a deadly fire, and if she wasn't careful, she would end up burning herself. "It's not always enough Yamcha. I need more than that."

"Really?" A harsh wind blew past them both, making his eyes narrow with malice, and he darted his eyes across her face with disgust. "Does that _other_ guy give you what you need?"

"Yamcha, don't start this…"

"Why? So, Vegeta can come in and steal my girl, but I'm not allowed to ask about it?"

Bulma's eyes flashed open at the mention of the name, her electric irises alive with shock. She replayed the conversation in her head, wondering at what point had she slipped and let Vegeta's name slither off of her tongue.

Yamcha scoffed, clapping his hands slowly in applause. "And there it is, ladies and gentlemen," he laughed and hollered as if he were celebrating, although Bulma found nothing funny about the situation, "There it fucking is. The look that I knew you would give, oh _manI_ could've taken a bet on it. The look of hard pressed _truth_. _I'm_ nursing a broken heart here, that _you_ caused by the way," he jammed an accusatory finger in her direction, "And you're out here sleeping with the very man who fired me!"

"You fired yourself, Yamcha!" Bulma clenched her fists at her side, a wretched anger brewing in her belly, "You acted like an ass because you decided to bring your personal life to your job! There's no way that you can blame that on Vegeta!"

His jaw dropped as a volatile flame ignited in the shadow of his eyes, his cheeks puffing red. "So you're defending the son of a bitch now too, huh? What, you guys have pillow chatter about poor ole' Yamcha?" A flicker of sadness danced over his eyes, but he blinked and it was gone. "You're _really_ seeing him, aren't you?"

"That's none of your business," her tongue burned with words she wanted to say, but they had nestled on the inside of her cheek, and she was beginning to question why she was even entertaining this conversation in the first place. "What I have going on in my personal time is no longer any of your concern."

"Well how the hell am I supposed to act like it doesn't bother me when you're parading around here, mushing your faces together on street corners?! I saw you two the other night. I've never been so betrayed in my life, and I would've never thought it would come from you."

Bulma was unable to break her stare away from Yamcha, watching him incredulously, a heavy blanket of anger sleeping between them. She studied the lines of his face and wondered how had there ever been a time when she was able to look past his many flaws and love the man underneath? Yamcha was selfish, far beyond any capacity of saving, and she chided herself for keeping him on a pedestal for as long as she had. The torch had long been extinguished, and Yamcha was still trying to light it with wet matches.

"Like I said," she brushed past him, letting the steam of irritation roll off of her body and pool onto the cement for him to lick up, "It's none of your business. Don't bother me anymore Yamcha. Not until you can grow up."

She cursed his name in a string of insults under her breath, stomping with much more force than intended in each step, hoping that if she turned around he would resemble a ghost.

"Wait, Bulma!" His voice boomed, even though she knew he hadn't moved from his spot. She stopped in her tracks, her back still to him, her face still painted in anger. "Why him?" His voice was helpless, cracking. "Why Vegeta of all people? He's not even a good guy. I've heard all sorts of rumors about him, and if any of them are true, he's just going to spit you out after he's broken your heart. So why throw away everything for _his_ sake?"

Bulma took a deep breath, preparing to speak. She wouldn't waste her words for her benefit, and certainly not for Yamcha's, but Vegeta didn't deserve to have his name shitted on, especially when everything she saw in him negated Yamcha's words. "Because I got tired of tasting stale roses when all I wanted to do was _bloom_." And with that she left him, a confused look on his face, and a victory point in her pocket.

oooOooo

"Bulma, could you hand me that wrench over there?" Dr. Briefs lay on his back, sprawled on a yellow roll cart, checking the bottom of the 'brain' machine for the smart home protoype.

Bulma delivered it to him, tinkering with some buttons on the side panel of the machine, trying to lose herself in as much of the work as possible. But every so often she would catch herself gritting her teeth and throwing Yamcha's name to the ground, stomping it out with her foot like it was a cigarette.

"That should just about do it," Dr. Briefs rolled out from under the machine, wiping his brow with the back of his work glove and taking a satisfactory breath, "I think this will be ready to unveil in about two months' time, just in time for the convention." He stood and dusted his coveralls, grabbing a bottle of cold water on the desk behind him. He watched his daughter intently as he took a long swallow, inspecting the lines of her face with a scientist's eye.

"You're gonna knock it out of the park, Dad," Bulma didn't meet his eye as she continued jotting her notes, her jaw clenching and unclenching. The nerve of Yamcha to show up and put a damper in her otherwise perfectly good day. "I'm sure you'll take top prize this year. Anyone who lays eyes on this would regret _not_ funding it."

"Hmph, perhaps you're right," Dr. Briefs had finished his water and slipped into his lab coat, but he did not take his eyes from Bulma. A silence that only he paid attention to draped the room, hanging heavier and heavier with each passing second. He traced the outline of his moustache and took a deep breath. "So how long are you going to pretend that you're doing fine, honey?"

Her eyes quickly darted to him, holding a gaze with him for a fleeting moment before turning her attention back to her notepad. "I _am_ fine," she said unconvincingly, "Just really want to make sure that I'm giving this machine my full attention today."

"Huh," Dr. Briefs took a stool and grabbed his cigarette pack, quickly sending the room into a smoky inferno once he lit the stick, "And how many times have you wrote Yamcha's name through a skull on that pad of yours?" He nodded towards her and she finally dropped her defenses, sighing as her arms rested at her sides.

"It's that obvious?"

"Well it's not a matter of being _obvious_ , I mean you are my daughter and all, so of course I know when something's _bothering_ you," he began to mumble and waved her off, "But more importantly, I've always hated this building for how thin the walls are." He looked at her knowingly, his face letting her know how clued in he was.

"So you got to hear all of that," she kicked at something invisible on the ground, shying away from her father, "Then I guess you know how done I really am with him this time. He's such a jerk."

"Is that the only reason why you've called it quits and come on home?" He let out blue and gray puffs of smoke and they pirouetted around his head in a halo, "Has nothing to do with a certain property buyer we know?"

Bulma felt her face flush hot, and she was sure that her cheeks had turned into tomatoes. She still hadn't really gushed to her parents about her and Vegeta's contractual dating regimen, but it seemed as if she didn't have to. Her father was a genius in many aspects.

"A little," she spoke softly, flashing her father a tiny smile as she walked towards him, pulling out a stool and sitting next to him. "He's a really nice guy, daddy."

He chuckled, causing his shoulders to vibrate, and took another drag of his cigarette. "You can see that through that mean face of his? You wear the Briefs' name proudly, my dear." He elbowed her gently, making her snicker, and she turned to wrinkle her nose at him. "Is he making you happy, Bulma? I don't know much about Vegeta outside of his musical endeavors and properties and colleague mumbo jumbo, but outside of that, does he make you happy?"

Bulma chewed over her words for a moment, trying to decide the most fitting answer to the question. Did Vegeta make her happy? Was happy a strong enough adjective? Did she tell her father that she had just been able to see the color of her veins, when before her wrists were littered with cobwebs? Or how she found herself humming the songs of his flesh in the shower, or how during the day she would smell him with the passing wind, how her fingers still pulsated from the electricity that coursed through his body?

"He makes me," she turned to look at her father and smiled warmly, letting her face fall naturally as she thought of him, " _Me_. Unapologetically and unashamedly _me_."

Dr. Briefs couldn't help but to return the genuine smile that stole his daughter's face, feeling his mouth rising so high it threatened to split his face in two. He stood up and bent down over her, kissing the top of her head. "Then I'd say you're one of the lucky ones," his words grazed her bangs, fluttering down to find solace in her ears, "And I hope you _both_ know that."

He let her go with a wink, and walked away from her whistling a tune. Bulma optically followed the back of his dirtied lab coat as he went back to work, her sour mood dissipated. For a splitting second, she wondered what Vegeta would look like when he was her father's age, and would he too whistle while he worked, waiting to get home and laugh at secret jokes between he and the wife that he adored.

oooOooo

The supermarket was surprisingly busy to be so late in the afternoon, way past the hours that anyone with a child would want to go, and yet Bulma felt as if she was bumping into kids at every turn of an aisle.

She finally found some isolation in the frozen vegetable section, which _of course_ she did, and she breathed a happy sigh of relief as she was able to skim through a colorful selection without having to politely move out of the way.

She wondered what kind of vegetables Vegeta would appreciate the most. It had been a long time, but she felt like making him a hearty dinner - - a pot roast to satisfy his carnivorous needs, and she wanted everything about the meal to be perfect- It was only fitting for someone like him, and since it would be his first time eating her cooking, she wanted to make her mother proud.

She felt something cold graze her butt, and she turned around with a frown to chastise the offender. An attractive man gave her an apologetic smile, flashing his moon envying pearlescent teeth, his hand rubbing the back of his hair. He had the most perfect skin, she noticed, with a cool undertone that reminded her of sea foam. Bulma took a quick stock of his rather expensive clothes, and wondered what someone like _him_ was doing shopping in sleepy store like this?

"I'm so sorry, Miss," his voice was velvet, as if he had been mimicking Frank Sinatra his entire life, hypnotizing women around the globe with a simple hello. "It's really tight through here," he pointed at the limited space between the freezer aisles.

Bulma's face softened - the man seemed harmless enough - and gently shook her head. "It's okay. These aisles are pretty narrow."

"What else can you expect in a hole in the wall store like this?" He chuckled, although no light shone through his honey eyes, his teeth stealing the majority of his mouth. Even as his laughter died to a hushed giggle, he never broke their eye contact, and Bulma felt like she was going to be burned alive by his sun and fire irises.

"You know," he bit down on his bottom lip, surveilling her face carefully, "You are _really_ pretty. Like, neck turning gorgeous. I'm sure you get that all the time, right?"

Bulma chuckled nervously, unable to not feel the pressure that his intense stare gave. "That's very kind of you to say, thank you."

"Oh, the pleasure is _all_ mine, I promise." He tucked a loose strand from his ponytail behind his ear, a diamond dangling from a hoop earring moving slightly at his touch, and she felt like he was going to out her under hypnosis. "I just can't stop looking at you. Your _hair_ , the exquisite sparkle of your eyes, your beautiful smile. I'm insanely jealous of whoever gets to call you their own." A murky flash flickered across his eyes, making Bulma feel trapped. " _Is_ there someone calling you their own?"

Her mouth tasted of stale crackers, and she could only find herself nodding, a frozen bag of vegetables making her palm go numb. She cleared her throat and tossed them into the cart, attempting to squeeze past him. The tiny aisle made it impossible, however, and he was not moving his iron grip on the shopping cart. Bulma gave him a polite smile and nodded her head in the direction to move.

"Oh silly me," he said unapologetically, moving his cart to let her through, "I didn't mean to hold you up like this, Miss Briefs."

Bulma shot him a slightly surprised look. "So you recognized me, I see," she began to move her cart through, her tone dripping with mild annoyance, "Well, as _flattering_ as this conversation has been, I really should be going."

"Oh of course," the man's eyes narrowed into slits, the corners of his mouth lifting into a coy grin, "I'm sure _Vegeta_ doesn't want a pretty little thing like you out for too long." At her gaping expression, he snickered and moved closer to her, beginning to push his cart in the opposite direction. His breath was cool on her cheek as he said with his serpent's tongue: "You never know _what_ kind of predator might scoop you up. You look so meek and innocent, the perfect prey."

He didn't leave Bulma any time to recollect herself as he sauntered down the aisle, turning slightly to grin at her over his shoulder. A chill creeped down her spine as he watched her intently before flicking his ponytail over his shoulder and disappearing behind another row of freezers.

oooOooo

It smelled good in the kitchen, if Bulma had to admit, and she licked her top lip happily as she cut up the final potatoes to add to the pot.

Vegeta stood behind her, hovering over her shoulder as he watched her careful measurements of seasonings and spices. He grunted in surprise as she skillfully handled a pan cooking away asparagus simultaneously with stirring gravy. "Smells good," he said softly, and Bulma turned around to smile at him.

"Want to taste it?" She dipped her wooden spoon into the pot with gravy, blowing lightly on it to cool it down. She offered it to him, her hand cupped underneath to catch the drippings, and he accepted, covering the spoon with his mouth. She carefully watched his face for his reaction, her breath stuck in her throat.

Finally he nodded, reaching behind him to drink his wine. "Where did you get the recipe?"

"It's my mother's," she said with a smile, "I've never had a chance to make it on my own, but she makes me help her every holiday."

"Well it's a good thing she did." She felt his eyes burn her back as she put the lid back on, watching the steam immediately paint the glass, and she wished she could control the giddiness that his compliment was making her feel. "Thank you, for making dinner."

Something in his tone made her sad, as if he wasn't used to anyone making him a proper meal, so she placed her spoon on the counter and turned around to wrap her hands around his waist. "I'll cook you dinner whenever you ask. _If_ you ask politely."

"Don't be getting too arrogant, Bulma," he grinned and placed his arms around her as well, "I haven't tried the roast yet. For all I know, you're trying to mask how horrible it is with the gravy."

She lightly punched him in the chest and scoffed. "Asshole. I'll have you know I spent a very long time at the grocery store picking out every ingredient with purpose. It will be delicious."

"So you say," his tone was so gruff and deep and it oozed with power, and Bulma admitted it was one of her favorite things about him. "But seeing as I wasn't there, I have no way of knowing how many people you asked to help you."

"You are really laying it on today," she laughed, "But maybe it would have been better if you _did_ come with me. So many weird and insane things happened."

"Oh really," he rubbed the small of her back, making her sigh pleasurably against his chest, "Like what?"

"Well, for starters I ran into Yamcha, or I should say, he ran into _me_." His features darkened at the name, and she felt him breathe heavily with agitation. "He knows about us, you know. He said he saw us kissing on the street the other night."

Vegeta instantly shrugged his shoulders. "So?"

"So he's not happy about it, obviously."

Vegeta clenched his jaw and looked to the side, staring at the wooden oak of his cupboard. "Are you…do you…does that _bother_ you? That he knows?"

Little by little, Vegeta was cracking his hardened shell around her, letting her in oh so subtly, but just enough that she could see what he was _really_ trying to say. She turned his chin back to her, looking him squarely in the eyes. "Hey, I promise it's not like that. I don't care if he knows or not, I just don't like how childish he's being about it."

"Hmph. Do you want _me_ to deal with him? I'm sure he'll have a change of heart afterwards."

"Not only do I _not_ like the way that sounds, I'm going to have to ask that you refrain from Vegeta-ing of any kind. Although maybe you could have handled the guy at the supermarket for me…"

" _Guy_ at the supermarket?" His arms hugged her a little more possessively, his tone laced with disapproval, "What kind of _guy_ at the supermarket?"

"Some creep, I think he works for some tabloid. He knew my name and he knew yours too. I guess neither one of us can escape the life we have for ourselves."

"Why did he say my name?"

"He knew we were dating," she shrugged her shoulders, "He must have really done his research. I was surprised to think he could work for a tabloid. He was creepy and basically called me _prey._ But he had such fancy clothes and jewelry, and his green hair was so perfectly taken care of-"

" _Green_ hair?"

"Guess I'm not the only one," she chuckled, "It looked pretty natural in my opinion, but he's obviously rich, so he could just be paying for it."

"When you say jewelry," his voice turned serious, "What kind of jewelry are you talking of?"

"Earrings, mainly. They were cute; small hoops with dangling diamonds. They looked rare."

Vegeta clenched his jaw and let her go, walking to the living room, his shoulder muscles twitching. Bulma turned down the eye of the stove and followed him, her eyebrow raised in question. "Vegeta?" She leaned against the doorway, "Is everything all right?"

He nodded his head briskly, although she wasn't convinced, but didn't turn around to face her. "You were looking like that again, Vegeta. Like the other night at the restaurant. What's bothering you?"

"Nothing, Bulma, just," he sighed, massaging his temples and he finally turned around to face her, "If you see that guy again, call me _immediately_. Don't talk to him, and walk away if he approaches you."

Bulma felt her stomach drip with anxiety, and she walked closer towards him. "O…ka…y? Do you know this man Vegeta?"

"Something like that, I just-" he turned to glare at the wall, rubbing his chin, "There's some people that my father knew, that just _aren't_ very good people. If the guy you're describing is who I think he is, he's at the top of the list of not very good people."

"You're kind of scaring me, Vegeta," she hugged herself tightly for protection, trying to provide herself some warmth. Inside, she was nervous. Was _that_ the vibe that she was sensing from the man earlier? Vegeta looked pretty worse for wear at the mentioning of the stranger, and _she_ had a conversation with him. Had she made a mistake?

He took a deep breath and dropped his shoulders, staring at her intently. "Don't be afraid. I wouldn't let them do anything to you. I give you my word."

She nodded, seeing the truth in his eyes so defiantly clear, although she was still shivering behind her mask. The smell of pot roast escaped the kitchen from the oven, reminding her that they were _supposed_ to be having a nice evening. She didn't want this to be an immediate mood killer, especially with Vegeta not appearing to want to talk about it.

She walked towards his album collection, letting her dainty fingers skim through different covers as she roamed through the selection. One in particular caught her eye, making her smile with a fond nostalgia. She removed the vinyl from the sleeve and placed it on the record player, relaxing as soon as the needle sung a crisp scratch.

"Vegeta," she turned back to him, her loose casual green dress swaying with her, and extended her arm, "Dance with me."

He gave her a long stare before shaking his head, his hardened face not moving. She rolled her eyes and moved towards him, her hips moving delicately at the soothing instruments. "Come on, dance with me. This is one of my favorite songs, and I've never danced to it before."

"I don't dance, Bulma."

"Correction, you _didn't_ dance," she moseyed her way up to him and grabbed his hands, moving them back towards the open space by the record player, "Until you met me."

He grumbled but didn't remove his hands. "Vegeta, it won't kill you. I'm a lady who's requesting a dance," she laced her voice with a heavy southern drawl, curtseying the bottom half of her dress, "And you're a man who should ask me."

Vegeta let out an irritated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Are you serious about this right now?"

"As a heart attack."

He shook his head but sauntered to her, his dark eyes swallowing her whole. "Fine, if it'll get you to shut up. Do you want to dance?"

"That's not how you ask a lady," she frowned and placed both hands on either side of her hip, standing a bit on her tippy toes, "You don't sound very convincing."

"You're grating my nerves Bulma," Vegeta turned around and started the vinyl over, the introductory notes washing over the room again, "Miss Briefs, do I have the pleasure of this dance?" He grumbled it in a rushed manner, looking embarrassed. He held his thick hand out towards her.

" _Much_ better, and yes you may," She grinned and placed her hand in his palm, taking note of the difference between them, olive skin on milky flesh, her delicate fingers drowning in his vast palm. They fit perfectly in his mold as he clasped his fingers over hers, pulling her close to his body and leaving a very small gap between them. His hands rested in the dip of her curve as her arms snaked around his neck, their hands interlocked and held up as they began their dance.

"To Elvis Presely, of all people," he grunted.

"I love this song, Vegeta," she hummed the melody with a sweetness that was stained on her tongue since as long as she could remember.

_Wise men say…_

She smirked at him as she hummed, and Vegeta's irritated expression slowly softened. He was unable to hold back a giggle as he realized just exactly what they were doing. Bulma felt inclined to laugh with him.

_Only fools rush in…_

The music swept under their feet, lifting them up as they circled the area in an old fashioned sort of waltz. Vegeta steadily brought her closer to him until their chests were touching, and Bulma grabbed the back of his neck with a tighter grip, her silly, wide smile slowly waning under his gaze.

 _But I can't help_ …

Vegeta was watching her in a way that she had never seen before. She was getting used to the carnal flame that burned in the browns of his eyes when he wanted her, and she would match his desire with her own strong will. But in this moment his eyes were soft, his tense forehead and jawline smoothed out into a serene expression.

She wanted to paint it.

_Falling in love, With you._

He was studying her face with careful analyzation, like he was searching past her exterior for something more. Bulma felt naked, even with being fully clothed, and she hoped that whatever he was searching for would give the answer to the question that etched across his face. His lips parted, almost as if he wanted to say something, but he continued his exploration of her features, like he was going to map the stars the littered her cheekbones.

_Shall I stay?..._

If she looked hard enough, she could almost see a little boy at a piano in the depths of his eyes, playing beautifully for the audience around him. She mustered every ounce of her will to reflect herself in her own regard, and show him a little girl with blue hair joining him at the bench, accompanying his fluid notes.

_Would it be a Sin?..._

His fingers circled over her hands tighter, lightly massaging them. He closed his mouth and his chest vibrated against her breasts, making her realize that he was humming. She joined him, her light voice floating over his baritone, ribboning together in a perfect harmony. Bulma's hand on the back of his neck found its way to his face, her fingers exploring the sharp lines of his jaw until they stroked the softness of his cheek. Vegeta must have been in a trance, because he leaned into her fingers, his soft expression powerful with adoration.

_If I can't help falling in love, with you._

They were moving slower, but Bulma didn't even realize as she drowned in his grip on her. He moved their joined hands to his chest, resting her palm right over where his heart would be, his own hand protectively covering it. Bulma smiled at him, her fingers still caressing his face, and she was surprised to see Vegeta give her a smile in return. It was a small, lopsided grin, but it spoke all the words that she knew he was saying in his head.

_Take my hand…_

They stopped dancing, although the world around her was still spinning, matching her pulsating heartbeat. They stood in the middle of his living room, their eyes pressed into the other's as if the answers to life itself could be found in the curves of their lips and the lashes of their eyelids. Vegeta was drawing crescent moons on the back of her hands, and the gentle finger movements made her skin burst alive in color, as if she could sink her teeth into the sweetest yellows and the most savory of whites. She remembered reading once in a horoscope that a part of her was once a supernova exploding, and she was beginning to think if a simple touch from Vegeta was the reason.

_Take my whole life too…_

He let their hands fall as his fingers skimmed the sides of her face. First one hand. Then two. He stroked her cheeks so gently that Bulma thought she would break. The intensity of his stare did not falter; in fact it seemed that with every passing croon from Elvis, his eyes would flicker with an unspoken adoration that Bulma could hear loud and clear.

_For I can't help…_

The weight of the moment came crashing down on Bulma heavily, as her brain made clarity with her feelings. Never did she think that she would be here, dancing away with Vegeta, being melted by the poetry of his eyes. She wanted to question it, wanted to know if this was right, wanted to see if she was absolutely crazy for allowing herself to dive into the deepest ends of the water. He looked to be there with her, holding her hand as they leaped into the raging waves, plunging into something new, something necessary. His name sat dormant on her tongue, trailed by a few short words that she felt so absolutely compelled to say. But her mouth wouldn't open, her tongue cemented. Vegeta's eyes darted towards her mouth like he understood, and over the last line of the song, he slowly brought his head to hers, _her_ name escaping his lips as if he was breathing life back into the syllables. A wet choke came from the back of her throat as she understood the words inscribed on the back of her name.

_Falling in love,_

His lips found hers, kissing her in a way that wasn't sexual, and he drank down her confession as he explored the inside of her mouth with new purpose, his hands cradling both sides of her face. Bulma felt the emotion wedge up in her throat as she leaned into him, gasping into his mouth. If all the stars in every sector of the universe aligned again to create a new destiny, she was sure that she would still end up right here, right now, right with Vegeta.

_With you._

And she didn't want it any other way.

oooOooo

**A/N:**

**I just reeeeeeeaaaaalllly wanted some fluff :3 That song always gets to me.**

**Thank you guys so much for your feedback on the last chapter! I'm glad you all enjoyed it as much as I loved writing it. I hope this chapter was pleasurable as well for you guys!**

**As always, if you enjoyed this PLEASE leave a review! I can't express enough how much I love getting reviews (like every writer EVER) and how much they can turn my day around. Like I always say, feed the writer, and they'll feed you back ;)**

**Till next time, my friends!**


	15. Lov(H)ers

_**Concerto Fifteen: Lov(H)ers** _

oooOooo

Vegeta had grown to hate the smell of gingerbread.

He remembered on cold winter evenings, right before the holidays, his mother would fill their large home with the smell of her gingerbread cookies. It was a chokingly sweet, nutmeg sort of smell that he had associated with comfort and warmth and a smile that seemed to shine for him. But when the curtains abruptly closed on the intricate stage play that was his family life, Vegeta could no longer tolerate the deceptive smell.

Which is why he tried to condense his trips to Nappa's Fine Jewelry to every once in a rare while.

As his oxfords hurriedly paced the cobblestone pavement, each hard pressed step of his foot adding to the anxiety brewing in his belly, Vegeta temporarily allowed himself to burn in the fire of his own nerves.

Vegeta was afraid, and the only one he could speak with was Nappa.

The bells inside of the quaint shop announced his arrival as he stormed through the doors, the intense smell wafting through the air like a ghost until it smacked him in the face. It seemed it was a family tradition to paint the walls with delicacy. His eyebrows mushed together as he tried to wade through the tide, making his way directly to the counter and to the bald man in the middle of a transaction.

Vegeta ignored the mild protest from the patron as he slammed his palms on the counter, interrupting an exchange of money. His eyes were black furies of thunderstorms, making Nappa stare at him with a heightened worry.

"What happened, Vegeta?" Nappa's hand was frozen against the top of the register, his fingers stretched with the intent on gaining another profit for his store.

"Exactly what you _think_ could have happened," a look of embarrassment flashed over his features but he swallowed it away, "But this is a conversation for the back room, Nappa."

Natsubi slowly wandered in behind Nappa through the cutout in the back, in the middle of cleaning an expensive looking teapot, and looked back and forth between her husband and Vegeta. "Is everything okay?" She raised her eyebrow as she casted him a knowing expression, a underline of worry sleeping beneath her question.

Vegeta stared at her like she was a nuisance, letting her know through the shadows of his eyes that it was none of her concern. Truth be told, Natsubi was the closest thing Vegeta had left of his mother, and he wanted to save her innocence of the entire ordeal, even if the colors of her irises sparkled with the truth of the puzzle, including the cobwebs that held it all so delicately together. He clicked his tongue and turned his attention back to Nappa, not having the patience to explain it twice.

"Natsubi, I need you take over this transaction for me," Nappa subtly nodded at Vegeta in understanding, stepping backwards and placing a hand on the small of her back, "I should talk with him."

She nodded, although her face indicated that she would not let up on the matter, and politely took the customer's money. Vegeta lifted the wooden counter and went under it, looking at Natsubi out of the corner of his eyes guiltily as he walked passed her.

Nappa sat on a crate and took a deep breath, his chest expanding with enough room for the entire universe. Vegeta leaned on a wall, crossing his arms, pressing his lips together so tightly his skin threatened to detach.

"Vegeta," Nappa grunted gruffly, "How bad is it?"

Vegeta stared at him for a long moment before slowly rolling his eyes to the ground, his forehead creased in the middle. "It's bad," he said in a low tone, "It's really fucking bad."

Nappa sighed, closing his eyes like he could guard himself from the answer he knew Vegeta was going to give. "…It's Frieza, isn't it?"

Vegeta nodded, still refusing to look at him, wrapping his arms tighter around his frame. "Zarbon ran into Bulma at the grocery store. He threatened her. It seems like Frieza is ready to collect."

"Well no _shit_ ," Nappa replied sarcastically, his tone dripping with irritation, "Of course he's ready to fucking collect. He went out of his way to send you a goddamned _letter_ , for Christ's sake! I knew it would only be a matter of time before he starts putting in work to get what he's owed. Frieza is a son of a bitch on his own, but when he _tries_?" Nappa shook his head and curved his fingers down the sides of his moustache.

"I _know_ that," Vegeta bit back, finally looking at him with fiery eyes, "I'm _completely_ aware what Frieza is capable of when he's pissed off. If anyone fucking knows, it's _me_. But they know about _her_ …" he spat a cursed mumble out, huffing and unfolding his arms. He pounded on the wall behind him with clenched fists, gritting his teeth, trying to restrain his building emotions. "It was one thing when it was only me they were after, but now she's included like some damned two for one deal."

"So that's her then? Bulma?" Nappa blew out a faint laughter, contradicting the situation, "The infamous blue haired beauty. She's dragged into this mess too, huh? After I told her to stay away," he scoffed, "Who knew I was a fucking psychic?" He stared at Vegeta sternly, watching the way his jaw clenched tightly. "You can't let them get to her, Vegeta."

Vegeta relaxed his muscles, his skin growing hot at the mention of what was _his_ being jeopardized. "They _won't_ ," he declared officially, signing his name on the verbal contract with the ink of his tongue, "But I need to keep her as safe as possible." _And I don't know how to do that_.

Nappa nodded in understanding, knowing how Vegeta must feel, if the apprehensiveness that glazed over his eyes had anything to say. "There's only one way to do that, Vegeta. You're going to have to pay him the money. And _soon_."

Vegeta scoffed in defeat, knowing that the answer Nappa gave was the truth, but also realizing it was an impossible one for him to do quickly. The value that it would take to make Frieza sleep in the shadows again was high, but was it that expensive when it came to making sure that Bulma was protected? It felt like he was being consumed by déjà vu, each crevice of his brain littered with ghosts, each one of them taunting him with silicone smiles and whispered words of affection. He wanted to grab his head and tell them to stop; demand that they creep back into the corners of his mind where he could look at them through a looking glass if he desired. Instead, he was forced to cradle them, too far gone in his guilt to push them away to ease his suffering.

"Vegeta," Nappa said, his voice low and deep, "Let me help you. I have ways to make that kind of cash-"

"Absolutely not," he replied instantly, burning a stare through Nappa, "I know what you're discussing of doing and I won't allow it."

"Yasai would encourage it, Vegeta," Nappa treaded lightly, watching as the edges of Vegeta's eyes hardened, "She would make the same decision in this case. This shop was important to her, but if it came down to _you_ or this store? You already know the decision she would make."

Vegeta grunted harshly, not allowing his ears to soak up what Nappa was trying to say. He would _not_ allow the shop that his mother adored to be taken away, even if Nappa was half owner now. "The answer is _no_ , Nappa. And that's the end of that."

"So what did you come here for, huh?" Nappa's voice rose with restraint, his eyes narrowed, "You obviously came here for my help, didn't you? Well I'm giving it to you and you're swatting it away! You and that fucking pride of yours, I swear…" he said something, but the words got caught in the spaces of his teeth, "What happens when they _do_ get to her? Bulma? You and I both know that they will to get to you, so then what are you going to do? Add her to your collection of memories?"

Vegeta had a reply on his sharp tongue, but the weight of Nappa's honesty rained down on him, making his mouth go numb. He was struggling between the two, unsure of finding the balance.

Silence blanketed over them, stuffy words floating in the air above, looking down on the men with a grudge. Nappa scratched his chin and finally spoke. "…If you don't want my help, then you could always let this girl go, Vegeta. Distance from you would more than ensure her safety."

"No!" Vegeta was unsure of where the anger came from at the mere mention of Bulma not being around, and he lifted himself from the wall as he tried to settle his rage, " Bulma is where she belongs. I will think of another way before it comes to that."

Nappa's face relaxed as he let Vegeta's statement caress his ears. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, a playful grin stealing his lips. Vegeta hadn't thought of the words he served, but Nappa ate it all up. "Wait a second, am I wrong here or…you… Do you _love_ this woman, Vegeta?"

Vegeta felt his face go flat, his jaw go slack with fluster. _Love?_ He was ready to tell Nappa to mind his own business or classically deny it, but his brain instantly brought Bulma's face into view, her eyes heavy and sad with his answer. His heart tightened, and he decided that he did not enjoy seeing her that way, nor did he appreciate the acidity of guilt on his tongue. Vegeta had never really thought of his feelings for her, and he tried to shut away the memory of them dancing in his living room, and how he had drowned in the pools of her eyes desperately, wanting nothing more than to dissolve into her until he could breathe her flesh. Instead he said nothing and looked to the floor.

"Well gods be damned," Nappa chuckled, "I never thought I'd see the day. Can't say I blame you though, she's a _looker_."

 _She's more than that_ , he wanted to say, but instead he huffed and turned away from Nappa all together, his cheeks growing hot.

"Well, then I say you get moving on this grand _plan_ of yours, Vegeta," Nappa rose from the crates and moved towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder when he arrived, "If you have something to protect here, then you'd better act fast. And despite what your stubborn ass says, I'll help in any way I can. You deserve some sort of happiness, Vegeta, even if you've manipulated yourself into thinking that you don't." He squeezed his shoulder once, waiting for Vegeta to meet his eye contact, before heading back to the sales floor, leaving Vegeta no time to protest.

oooOooo

His fingers itched with the promise of key strokes.

The familiar sense of home washed over Vegeta as he opened the door to the theater, basking himself in the darkness that swallowed his prize: his grand piano.

He threw his coat down on a stack of chairs, barely missing the light switch with his swift steps. He spent the entire drive over sinking in silence, except for the symphony that was going on in his head. His brain madly scrambled notes and octaves together until his foot crushed down on his pedal, racing anxiously to make it to the theater and unleash his torment. Bulma had told him she would be working with her father again today, so he had no immediate outlet to fuel his wrath, so he chose to let his chaotic mind run rampant by way of ivory keys.

The wooden bench creaked as it welcomed his weight, hugging the underpart of his thighs with familiarity. Vegeta lifted the cover, humming the notes that plagued him for the past half hour, and his fingers began to roam over the keys in experimentation.

Vegeta closed his eyes as he let his hands get adjusted to the notes, trying to see the movie behind the musical. A shade of red hurdled towards him until it bled away the darkness, the chords accompanying the color deep and aching. His keystrokes were rushed, gnawing frantically at each other as if in battle, fighting their way to be heard the loudest. They jammed into a series of train tracks, laying a platform for Vegeta to run down, not daring to look behind him and see his troubles. He could feel a shadow slowly catching up to him as he manically strung together chords, its fingers barely ghosting the hem of his pants. Vegeta felt the coldness as it snuck up his skin, but it wasn't unwelcomed. It was familiar, in a sense, like he took his first breaths of life in an ice pit, the sharp frost biting at his veins. He wanted to stop running and let it consume him, chew away at his flesh until he was nothing but bone, forced to wither away into chalky dust.

But then, he felt the sun.

His fingers slowed their relentless pacing as he swayed them over the keys until the octave resembled an angel's cries. The notes here were more calculated, more purposeful, played with more meaning. The heat of the sun melted away the ice that doubled as his skin, and Vegeta sighed as he felt the relaxation of its rays. It wasn't a new feeling, more like something he forgot he used to know, but he let it lick at the harsh edges of his exterior until he was glowing. He stared into the blinding light, full of yellows and creams, until it was absorbed with the prettiest shade of blue.

His fingers glided over the keys, the notes pouring out together like running water, a sweet simple tune that sang of Shakespearean sonnets. A hand emerged from the center of the now blue sun, the delicate fingers reaching for Vegeta's face. He let them touch his skin as his own fingers let the piano cry in pleasure. He could taste the words that sank into his flesh, taste the confessions that made him question reality, but soon he relaxed in the honesty behind each syllable. He got lost in the blue planets for her eyes, looking at him in such a raw way that it left him exposed. But he didn't feel the shadow on his back anymore as her light gobbled it up.

Vegeta had completely lost himself in his own creativity as he ran over the keys, memorizing his patterns for later, the notes coming out perfectly as his mind glossed over possibilities with Bulma. Green pastures that they lay on, her hair wrapped in the petals of a rose, her cherry lips giggling his name. Midnight skies that they could fly to, their hands hugging the stars as they pointed out constellations that no one else could see. The deepest depths of the ocean, colored so magnificently against the hue of her hair, the water gently lapping at her skin as he pulled her to his chest. If he required oxygen, he would just drink from her. His score resembled the comfort of these impossible adventures, filling the theater with all of the words that Vegeta hadn't thought of yet.

"Wow, that's beautiful Vegeta."

He stopped his playing abruptly, whipping his head around to see Goku standing awkwardly in the center of the room, carrying his bass. Vegeta growled and turned away from him, immediately shutting the cover on the piano again. "What the hell are you doing here? It's a Saturday."

"Yeah, well Chi Chi took Gohan to her dad's for the day, so I figured I'd get some practice here. Our neighbors are really old, and the walls to our houses aren't thick, so they always complain when I get too loud." Goku scratched the back of his head and set his bass down, a smile slowly creeping along the edges of his mouth. "But _wow_ Vegeta, that was amazing what you were playing! Did you write that for the orchestra?"

Vegeta sucked in a tight breath of air and closed his eyes shut tightly. "No, this could never be played by the likes of you." An aquatic color replaced the blacks of his eyes so he opened them, the lines of his forehead smoothing out. "It's just something I came up with."

"Well, it's amazing! Sometimes Chi Chi likes to watch really old movies and cry to them. That song you were playing sounded like the soundtrack for one of them."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"She would think so. And so do I. I was actually going to suggest that you give us something else to play; that sounded too personal."

Vegeta grit his teeth as Goku laid out his assessment, the clinking sounds of the two cents Vegeta didn't ask for ringing loudly in his ears. Goku unzipped his bass and shuffled through his practice music, setting up without another word spilling from his lips. Vegeta opened his eyes and turned curiously, watching him adjust his stand. He cleared his throat.

Goku looked up innocently, staring at Vegeta with his mouth slightly opened. Vegeta rolled his eyes and shook his head, unable to grasp how sometimes Goku just _didn't get it_.

"I'm already in the middle of this song, Kakarot," he bit out, "So take your antics and find another place to practice."

"There is no other place," Goku said matter of factly, picking through his sheets, "And everyone else is busy. Krillin finally asked 18 on a date, so they're spending the day together, and Yamcha is still in a sour mood." His eyes narrowed slightly in Vegeta's direction quickly before regaining their round shape. "So I didn't want to bother him about playing."

"Hmph," Vegeta turned fully in his seat so that his back was against the piano, and he sat back with his arms stretched, resembling royalty. "So you're here to blame me for that, is that how it is? I caught that look you gave me."

"I'm not blaming you at all, I agree that Yamcha threw a tantrum. It's just that…you and I both know _why_ he threw the tantrum in the first place."

Vegeta bit down on his bottom row of teeth with such force he almost cracked his jaw, and his hands clenched and unclenched. "What the hell are you on about, Kakarot?" He asked, his voice deep and demanding.

"Yamcha told me and Krillin about it at the gym the other night. That you're dating Bulma?" Vegeta studied Goku's face carefully as he tried to see when the man would cast him a look of judgement, but it never came. Instead Goku waited patiently for an answer, one that Vegeta blinked away.

"My personal life is not up for discussion, especially not to be deciphered by _you_."

Goku shrugged, all of the words Vegeta expected him to say falling to the floor and littering his feet. "I'll be honest with you, Yamcha's my friend and all, but Krillin and me would listen to him talk about their arguments, and it seemed like they didn't make much sense anymore. Chi Chi drives me crazy sometimes," his brows knitted together as some sort of memory collage played in his mind, "But I don't talk about her _nearly_ the way Yamcha did about Bulma. I think maybe they're better off this way." Goku appeared to taste his words carefully, biting the inside of his cheeks. "Is _she_ the reason behind the music you were playing?"

Vegeta felt his face go hot, and he had a slew of words he wanted to use to answer Goku, including a message to Yamcha he was _sure_ would get delivered , but a vibration of his phone interrupted him, making the words stain his tongue instead. An unknown number flashed across the screen, and he eyed it curiously before answering.

"Yes?"

"My, my, is that a way to answer the phone? What if I was someone _important_?"

Vegeta felt his blood thin, running cold and thumping against the skin where his heart rested. The shrill voice in the receiver cackled loudly, causing Goku to look over towards him in question. Vegeta looked back at him, although he was frozen in place.

"Are you still there, Vegeta? I'd hate to add this phone conversation to the list of rude things you've been doing to me lately."

Vegeta swallowed thickly, tasting tumbleweeds, his voice lost in the confines of his throat. He coughed to clear it, his raspy voice responding, "I'm here."

"Good," the voice purred, laughing quieter this time, "If I couldn't reach you by letter or by phone, I was afraid I'd have to pay you a visit. And I really don't like paying visits, especially on a Saturday. So I'll make this short, if you can answer my questions thoroughly. You can do that right, Vegeta?"

Vegeta nodded, taking notice that he couldn't _actually_ be seen, and grunted in place of a reply instead. The voice chuckled whole heartedly, a contradiction to the ache that began to form in Vegeta's bones. "Very well. I suppose you are a man of few words, unlike your loud mouthed father. And speaking of the devil, it seems as if he owed me something! Did you read my letter, Vegeta?"

He sighed, closing his eyes and trying to restrain his building anger. "I received it."

"And no response? What would your mother say? I remember what she said to me about you, called you 'her little prince'. I thought it was precious, just like her. I'm sure she wouldn't want her _darling_ son to have such repulsive manners."

"Frieza," Vegeta stood and stamped his foot against the floor, walking briskly to his office as he tried his best to whisper, "I _don't_ have that kind of cash right now. I'm working on getting it—"

An irate wail pierced through the phone, making Vegeta remove it from his ear as if it were burning him. "You know, Vegeta, the last time I heard this promise it came from your father. He was a silly man, you know, biting off more than he could chew, and in the end he was the one that was spit out. I'd like to resolve his dispute before you're the next entre on my menu. Or perhaps that _lovely_ woman of yours has the money. Bulma Briefs? I'm sure Capsule Corporation would pay for her unguaranteed safety. Zarbon tells me that she _is_ lovely."

Vegeta pressed his back against the cool wood of his door and dropped his head, trying to keep face for seemingly no one. He slammed the weight of his fist on the wood, and he heard it moaning in splinters and cracks. This was a deadly game that he was a part of, and he needed to find a way to untangle both himself and Bulma from Frieza's dangerous web. "You'll get your money, Frieza, I swear it, just….leave her out of it."

"Oh ho ho, but Vegeta, she's the most _interesting_ piece! No one likes a dull performance, my boy, and she seems to be the star of this circus your family has orchestrated! But you're absolutely right, I _will_ get the money one way or another." There was a pause on Frieza's end, and Vegeta found himself holding his breath as he waited to hear his upcoming words. "You know," Frieza's voice came out whimsical, as if he was narrating a children's book, "Despite what they say, I'm not _awful_ Vegeta. I'm a business man, first and foremost, but I also have a heart. Surely you can understand that? Word around town is that you're having a concert! I hear it's supposed to be grand with _very_ important attendees. Is that so?"

"What is your proposal, Frieza?" Vegeta covered his eyes with the palm of his hand, as if he could just block out this current episode of madness that Frieza was driving him through.

"Well, you don't beat around the bush, do you? _I like that_. When is this concert? A few weeks? A month?"

"In a month and a half," Vegeta sighed and felt his abdomen tighten in stress.

"Perfect. Then I expect you to have the money by then. And because I'm so generous, I'll only charge you a ten percent inconvenience fee! Never say I don't negotiate, Vegeta. Do we have a deal?"

Vegeta wanted to laugh over the words, completely aware that he simply did not have a choice, knowing that Frieza was only dangling one option on the hook while the other line was cast over a cliff, into the dark pits of hell that Frieza seemed to own. He cleared his throat, his mind meticulously calculating how he could manage to make that much money in the time allotted. "We have a deal," he replied, feeling like he was signing his life away to the devil himself.

"Glad to make business with you. Oh, and Vegeta? Do understand that this is the last deadline I'm willing to work with you. If you can't make this one, then I'll have to go about another way of collecting, and I'd really rather not do that. It always leaves me feeling _so_ unclean." There was a click in his ear, and Vegeta brought the phone down to see the call disconnecting, the number flashing away at him like a timer to a bomb, and a part of him wished that he would detonate with it.

oooOooo

The sun was singing the tunes of its departure, making way for the moon to take center stage, the magenta and orange glows of its rays coating Bulma's delicate skin. She was chatting away about the improvements of her progress on the smart home, as well as discussing some ideas she had for an upcoming painting, but Vegeta wasn't paying attention. All he could see when he looked at her was a target, and he was trying to decide how to shield her from the bullets of his past.

"Vegeta, are you okay?"

The question pulled him from his thoughts, and he saw her clearly this time, catching the colors that latched on to her bare legs as she cuddled in the patio chair on his balcony. His white button up fit loosely on her body, swallowing her arms so that her hands were barely visible, making Vegeta's chest tight at her comfortable vulnerability. She caught him staring so he looked away, pretending to care more about the setting sun instead of the electricity in her eyes.

"I'm fine," he grunted, "I'm just thinking about the concert."

She hummed contently, stretching her arms and grabbing her glass of tea from the table. "I can't wait until the concert. It's been so long since you've had one."

He snorted, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards, and cast a stare on her again. "You say that as if _you're_ the one playing."

She smiled at him, bringing the glass to her lips and taking a swallow, the gentle curve of her neck bobbing. She sat the glass back on the coaster and shrugged, her messy curls from her shower falling on her shoulder. "I'm only saying that I'm excited. I love to see you up on the podium. You look so powerful, so majestic. Like nothing can touch you. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever laid my eyes on."

He grabbed his own glass and swallowed down his nerves and embarrassment, feeling his stomach go light with stars. She sounded so pleasant as she spoke of him, like she had been crafting the words for years in order to feed his ego, but the underbelly of the declaration was genuine, and it made his chest puff out more than he'd like to admit. "Hmph," he scoffed unconvincingly, "Well I can't say I blame you. I _am_ a prodigy, after all."

"It's _so_ refreshing to know that you're confident and all," she rolled her eyes, "But I still meant what I said. This time, I might even bring a sketchbook in the audience. So you can see what you look like freshly in my mind instead of an afterthought." She sighed contently and brought her knees to her chin, resting on them. "Sometimes, I wish that I could swim the tides of your brain. I'm willing to bet I can get the answers to the universe up there."

Vegeta didn't know what to say to that. Her eyes shone like sapphires as she watched him in admiration, leaving him naked. He wished he could give it to her, hand it over like a movie purchase, let her see the interfolds of what made him _him._ But he was also afraid that if he let her look too closely, he would see the remnants of secrets he wasn't ready to expose yet, and she would realize that he was nothing more than a man sleeping in his own troubles.

"Are you sure you'd even like what you'd find?" He challenged her, his eyes following a bird that was flying home for slumber, "I could be a mad man, you know."

"You _are_ a mad man," she chuckled, lowering her legs to rise, curving the table to stand behind his chair. She bent down and wrapped her arms around neck, pressing her cheek against his ear. Vegeta felt his skin burn up at the touch, tickling his memory of the vivid movie he watched while playing his piano earlier. "But you're mad in the best way." Her breath was hot against his ear, her tone soft until it rivaled the wind, and when she laughed he felt a shiver destroy his ability to breathe. "If you're worried about how it'll turn out, then I want you to know that I believe it will be perfect. I'm no expert, but I can't think of any other person who can inflate my lungs with the sound of music."

He turned to look at her, searching her face as if he didn't believe her. She was serene, a waterfall to lull you to sleep, an oasis with the promise of forever youth. Even with her skin touching his, Vegeta had a hard time believing that he wasn't just hallucinating, and she would return to a place that he could only visit when he slept. She smiled at him before pressing her lips to his, making him forget that he had a weight on his back that seemed to never let up, no matter how many pennies he threw into a wishing fountain. She removed her mouth and leaned back, letting the cold air cruelly blanket his lips, and pressed her forehead to his. "I believe in you, Vegeta."

Vegeta felt his body go frigid, unable to react like he wanted to. He remembered something then, a conversation that he tucked away in the smallest depths of his brain, convincing himself that he would never have much need for it.

Yes, he remembered the floral paper of the wall, the flickering of flames that produced such a crisp sound, the blood red lipstick that stained her lips with a painful forewarning.

oooOooo

_Vegeta walked down the spiraled staircase, carrying his violin case with him. There was a storm raging about, threatening anyone who dare step outside during its rage. Vegeta stared out of the large window arrogantly, feeling more powerful than the god who created the rain. After all, he had his ultimate weapon in his fingertips, ready to silence any titan that crossed his path._

_He looked over the black railing into the common area below, the flames from the fireplace swaying rhythmically as it dimly lit the area, casting an eerie glow on the sector of the home. He descended the stairs and made his way towards the room, his black hair turning burgundy under the orange and yellow blaze._

_Yasai was stretched in front of the fireplace on her plush carpet, a record player at her side and a glass of wine on her lips. She was humming to the song, some instrumental from the 1930's, her head moving fluidly to the music. His deep footsteps broke her trance, and she looked up at him, an inebriated smile stealing her lips._

" _Are you leaving, Vegeta? It's awful out." She guzzled another drink, appearing to be consumed in her own private party._

_Vegeta nodded, grabbing his coat from the rack. "I have to practice, Mother. I really want to audition for the symphony next month."_

" _You can't practice in your room?"_

_He shrugged his shoulders and looked to his feet. "The ceiling isn't high enough to drown me out."_

_She giggled and set her wine glass down, rising to her feet and walking towards him. "My little prince, ever the perfectionist." He grumbled as she fixed the collar of his coat, tossing an umbrella against his chest with a silent demand that he use it. He scoffed, but grabbed it anyways, bringing it down to his side. "You remind me of your father now that you've gotten older," she stepped back to look at him, one of the two best creations she'd ever made if asked, a gentle smile tugging on her mouth, "So passionate and full of wonder. It makes me proud."_

_Vegeta felt the sting of an insult he knew she didn't purposely give, and he stared at a family portrait on the wall to distract his offended thoughts. The shadows the ceilings drowned their faces out, and Vegeta thought it was perfect. A rebuttal sat dormant on his tongue, tasting of the ashes of cigarette smoke, and he kept his mouth shut so he didn't litter the floor._

" _Vegeta," Yasai crossed her arms, resting one hand under her chin, "You're going to leave one hell of a mark on the world one day, and my biggest dream is that I'll be around to see it."_

" _Of course you will be," he raked his eyes back to her, "Who else would cheer me on if it wasn't for you?"_

_Yasai flashed him a polite smile, aware of the message that slept under his words, and she turned around to walk back to her spot, her silken robe moving behind her like waves, making her appear like she was destined to submerge everything she touched in her glory. "Who knows," she sighed dramatically, "Maybe you'll meet some lady who will replace your dear old mother in your heart. Then she'll be the one cheering you on."_

_He grunted, not liking the direction of this conversation. It seemed since he turned sixteen, his mother would subtly (and not so subtly) suggest that he find a girlfriend to show him the world that_ _**she** _ _created for him. "Impossible. I have no interest in the women I've encountered. Besides, I have my music to cuddle with at night. Anyone else would merely be my mistress."_

_Yasai turned around to face him, shock playing on her features. Eventually, her expression softened, and she let out a light chuckle. "You sound like I did when I was your age. Before I met your father. Before I fell in love. Love changes you, my son."_

" _It won't change me," he crossed his arms as a cocky smile covered his face, "Because I have no need for silly emotions like that. Love changes you all right, it makes you blind and stupid." There was a bitter edge to his words, making Yasai flash him a guilty grin as she pressed her lips together. She sat back down on the carpet and poured another glass of wine, watching her son carefully._

" _I'll be looking forward to that day. The day you come to me and tell me of the woman who sees a reflection of herself when she looks at you, the one who breathes a new life into you just by saying your name. I know she's out there for you, Vegeta, but I think she won't be easy to find. After all, to compete with a mind like yours, she'd have to be a little lost herself. But that'll be okay, because she'll believe in you, and if she comes to love you even half as much as I do, then you're in for a treat." She gave him a sad smile, one that he could have written a new symphony for, and a shred of truth lit in her irises. "I hope when that day comes, the day I prove you wrong and you do fall in love, you'll introduce me to her."_

_Vegeta felt the room growing too thick, and he suddenly wondered where his father was, and why he wasn't cozied up to the wife that waited for him every night. She loved his father so loudly that even when she was silent, he could read her words of adoration that were tattooed on her skin. He watched her turn the record player up louder, drowning out her loneliness under the drunkenly sad saxophone and the wine that was making her drunkenly sad. He tore his eyes away from her, gripping his violin case tighter as he made his way to the door, pretending not to hear the muffled sobs that came behind him._

oooOooo

"Vegeta?"

Bulma was staring at him in worry, her lips circled into a perfect 'O', her brows pressed together. "Are you alright in there? You just zoned out completely."

Vegeta nodded, the rush of colors of the present slamming back into his memory with the impact of a train. "I was…thinking," he shifted around her hold, his mother's phantom words playing in his mind like a faded soundtrack, yet as he ran his eyes over the curves of her lips and the narrow bridge of her nose, he could hear the message clearly.

Bulma released her hold on him and stood straight, stretching her tired limbs. She still looked down on him with a curious stare, but Vegeta rose and canceled any words that were about to fall from her lips. He grabbed her hand and turned them back towards the balcony doors. "I need you to come with me," he said, not turning back to see her face.

Bulma giggled, covering his hand with her other one, moving closer to his back. "Well, aren't you energetic this evening? So soon after we just finished?"

Vegeta sighed and shook his head, his cheeks tinting at her vulgarity. "No, not right now." He stopped at the doors, his hands on the door knob as he studied their reflection through the glass. She was light where he was darkness, innocent where he was tainted, a perfect contradiction. "There's someone I want you to meet."

oooOooo

_**A/N:** _

_**So first of all, I want to once again say THANK YOU TO THE REVIEWS! Most of you have been here since the beginning of the story, and I always get super excited when I read what you guys have to say! I especially loved that everyone enjoyed the dance scene from last chapter (no lie, that song has been stuck in my head since then) and I hope you guys like this one the same too!** _

_**So I'm preparing to go to a convention, and I have to get my cosplays together, so it may be a second before another chapter is released (I could be lying, and be sitting here typing a new chapter this time next week) but I'm not sure. I literally start and finish a chapter in one sitting (idk why I do this to myself!) so I may have to put this on hold until after the con.** _

_**Anywhooo,** _

_**R &R, as always my friends! Thank you all for always being so lovely to me, it means the world!** _

_**Until next time!** _


	16. Amoré

_**Concerto Sixteen: Amoré** _

_**A/N: Hi everyone! It's been a few weeks since an update, blame that on the conventions and vacations and just everyday life, but here we go! So was being strange a while back and wasn't sending any emails regarding chapter updates, so some of you may have missed the last chapter. If you haven't read it, please do so before reading this one, as the events follow immediately after last time.** _

_**Onwards to the story! (rest of a/n follows chapter)** _

oooOooo

The grass crunched under Bulma's dainty feet as Vegeta led her past another row of trees. She followed steadily behind him, studying the sharp edges of his neck, the way his hair stuck out from his nape like angry lightning bolts. Vegeta looked so dangerous and intimidating from behind. If she didn't know any better, she would assume that touching him would result in her own demise. Too bad she had already smoothed out the tension in his skin with her honeyed fingers.

She had wanted to ask him where they were going as he drove down into the rural parts of the city. But the way his jaw tightened under the orange haze of the setting sun, she had bitten down her question until it was safe to swallow. Besides, the moment he turned into the cobblestone parking lot, Bulma realized that she had definitely been here before.

She felt slightly embarrassed, if she could admit it, that the last time she had been in this part of town was when she was following Vegeta around. Back then, Vegeta had practically thrown her away with his piercing words and casted eyes. Back then, Bulma could barely see her own reflection in his hardened irises, and a small lift came to the corner of her mouth as she realized the difference. Vegeta didn't want her around then, but he was willingly leading her to his secret _now_.

Almost as if he could hear her thoughts, he turned his head slightly over his shoulder, his thick lashes painted a cool shade of purple, kissed so gently by the moon rays. "Just ahead here," he nodded to a rather large tree in front of them, "That's where we're going."

"Where is it that we're going?" She finally had to ask, her curiosity welling up inside of her. Vegeta hadn't said much, other than he had someone he wanted her to meet, but who in the hell lived all the way out _here_? And why was it under the direst of circumstances that she had to meet them _right_ now?

Vegeta huffed, turning his head back to the trail in front of him, his hands shoved into his pant pockets. "You will see," he said simply, causing her to raise an eyebrow in question. She bit down on her bottom lip instead, choosing to throw the reigns to him and trust that he wasn't leading her to the places where nightmares are created.

She bent down to avoid getting struck with a low hanging branch, and then Bulma had her answer. The field that Vegeta led them to was expansive; the grass here much more defined and intricate than the messy wilderness from before. Colorful flowers bloomed around the center like a halo, as if their job was to protect what lie in the middle with their beauty. Bulma took a second to let her eyes wander over the small details of the man-made garden, completely in awe that something so beautiful lie in the center of something so chaotic.

Vegeta didn't turn around to see her reaction, however, instead walking towards the assortment of flowers in the middle. Bulma watched him before slowly walking behind, knowing that he didn't take her to the depths of the bitter sweet floral garden to show off decorations.

Her eyes slithered past him as she stepped closer, to three marble gravestones. They sat so peacefully in the center, completely undisturbed as if the world around them just didn't exist. Bulma parted her lips and turned her stare to look over at Vegeta, who appeared to be lost in his own thoughts. He was pressing down hard on his jaw with such force that she was afraid he would break it, and she reached out to touch his hand.

He sighed and nodded towards the gravestone in the middle, bigger than the two on its opposite sides, and Bulma turned and walked forward to read the inscription on the grey marble.

"Yasai N'Ouija," she read, letting the name coat her tongue with familiarity. Her stomach became unsettled as she continued on, "Wife, Mother, Sister. Vegeta…" She turned back to him again and caught something flash over his eyes, but he blinked away any trace of sentiment.

"She's my mother," he cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady, "That's who I brought you here to meet."

Bulma wanted to reply with something, but her head was dizzy with a string of emotions. She hadn't expected Vegeta would bring her here to his mother's grave site, especially considering that Vegeta didn't talk much about his home life. Bulma respected it, although a part of her was always curious to meet the creators of the force that was Vegeta. She had always expected his parents to be great people.

But something about seeing the cold silence of what should be an intimate encounter made her feel frigid, more so for Vegeta than her own sake. How could he stand it, being out here by himself and speaking with ghosts who were too far away to reply? Bulma touched her stomach as she envisioned this someday being something she would have to do, and she fought back against the torment of ever having to see her mother and father like this.

Vegeta walked closer to her, the heat radiating from his body and pooling around her, his eyes glued in front of him. He swallowed and she knew there were words that he wanted to say, but he wouldn't let them escape from the prison of his lips. So she spoke instead.

"It's very nice to meet you, Mrs. N'Ouija," she knelt down in front of the stone, respectfully wiping off some dirt that stained the sides. Her stomach clenched as she read over the birth and death dates, realizing somberly that Vegeta's mother had died _very_ young. She licked her lips, wanting to litter the dirt with honest words that she desperately wanted to say.

"You'd be so proud of Vegeta, just like I'm sure you've always been. He's very talented, one of the best musicians I've ever met, and I'm sure you had something to do with that. He talks about you with fondness." She smiled and turned her head upwards to look at Vegeta, but his face was turned to gaze at a group of trees, his eyes narrowed and guarded. Bulma watched him in that fashion; his silhouette sharp against the milky, dusk sky, his forehead smooth and his eyes telling, the grey of his button up so dismal compared to the lush scenery before him, but perfect for the mood. He was beautiful, even through his barely masked stoicism, and she felt her heart ache even more. What would it take to never have to see the sadness in his face again, so that when she lost herself in his intense stare she would only be looking at the sun? She turned back to the gravestone, feeling an anchor in the back of her throat, but forcing her words out anyways. "I'm Bulma by the way; I realized that I haven't introduced myself. I've been dating your son for awhile now, and it's the happiest I've been in such a long time." Bulma smiled with a sweet sincerity as she looked down to her brown boots being adorned by lilies, grabbing one and twirling it between her fingers. "He's really brought out something good in me, whether he sees it or not. I _really_ wish I could have met you so I could have learned all of the embarrassing stories that Vegeta doesn't want me to know, or ask you if his eyes have always been the shade of ink. I would like to think you would approve of me."

Vegeta cleared his throat, and Bulma turned to see a crimson blush spread over his cheeks. "She would have," he said in a rushed voice, "I'm sure of it."

"That makes me happy to hear. Vegeta says we have some things in common, Mrs. N'Ouija. I'm sure we would have had the best conversations. I'm laughing a lot more these days and I have your son to thank for that." Bulma swallowed as she realized this conversation was quickly turning into a confession of the depth of her feelings for Vegeta. Since their dance, it had become so painstakingly clear to her that she had taken the plunge in her affections. She tried to remember if she had ever cared for someone with such a raw emotion, but came up empty.

She became too embarrassed to look at Vegeta again, considering that neither of them had ever sat down and discussed what they felt. As far as she knew, Vegeta enjoyed having her around just as much as she did, and if the way he swallowed her up with his eyes were any indication, it was possible that he was just as drunk on her as she on him. After all, she _was_ here having a conversation with his mother.

Her eyes darted to the other two gravestones next to his mother's, and she felt her stomach drop. Although smaller and with less inscription, the name _N'Ouija_ was still splattered boldly on both of them, with one of the stones surrounded by a wide variety of greeting cards. Bulma didn't want to be too incredibly nosy and read them, but judging from the images on the front, they were definitely bought from the young adult or children's section. She became hot with worry, suddenly having more questions than answers, and she scooted towards it to get a better look.

"Vegeta," she whispered, her brain taunting her with numerous possibilities, "What _happened_ to them?" She ran her eyes over the name, reading the dates of birth and death again, "Who's Tarb—"

Vegeta cleared his throat again, this time with more finality, and extended a hand to help her up. Bulma looked at his palm quizzically before placing her hand in his, her lips parted with the rest of her unfinished sentence. Vegeta bore his eyes into her face for a fraction of a second before staring past her. "It's late," he said drily, "And I'm getting tired. I should probably get some rest."

Bulma could practically taste the dishonesty, but instead she nodded, wondering if she was about to touch an itch she shouldn't scratch. They began to walk, the silence blanketed over them like a thick shadow, and Bulma stared at the ground, her lips pressed tightly together. Surely she wasn't prepared for this. These graves in the middle of nowhere, completely away from society in privacy, neatly in a row like an intricate burial plot instruction. The name N'Ouija in thick black letters on every stone. Bulma didn't need Vegeta to confirm what she already knew. She turned back to look at the makeshift cemetery again, the words haunting her mind with cruelty.

She was looking at all that remained of Vegeta's family.

It made her feel incredibly sick.

Her mind was swimming with pity, wondering what could have happened to them. Vegeta didn't speak on his family much outside of his mother, and Bulma had wrongfully assumed that perhaps they weren't on the best of terms. She was more than aware that not everyone was as fortunate enough to come from a home environment such as she, but knowing that Vegeta was a victim of such a cruel life circumstance made her feel uneasy.

Vegeta still hadn't said a word when they made it back to the car, and only the purr of the engine filled the silent void. Bulma buckled her seatbelt carefully, looking at the side of his face with sadness. He huffed, shutting his eyes and turning to look out the window.

"Why are you staring at me like that, Bulma?"

"Vegeta, I…" Where did she even begin? Her chest felt heavy and questions stained her tongue like cigarette ashes, but she couldn't even formulate the words. "I'm sorry."

He turned to look at her, his eyes soft and vulnerable, making her breath hitch in her throat. He stared at her fondly, although his face was a clean slate. "Do you know what you're apologizing for?" His voice was low and patient, as if he would give her a prize for figuring it out. She shook her head.

"No. But I want to." She looked down for a second, feeling the unease and tension rolling off of his shoulders in waves. "Do you regret bringing me here?"

"No," he replied immediately, and Bulma could practically pull the _"but…"_ that she was sure followed the word. Vegeta closed his mouth and put his own seatbelt on, staring straight out of the car on onto the cobblestone road. "I just really need to get some sleep. I don't want to be exhausted at rehearsal tomorrow."

Bulma nodded, although her palms became sweaty as she took in the words between his lines. Vegeta wouldn't come right out and say it, possibly to preserve her own feelings, but he was asking her for his solitude for the evening, and she reluctantly agreed to give it to him.

oooOooo

South City's neighboring town, Mt. Paozu, was a small but friendly village that was rich in luscious green grass and towering trees. It contrasted the more industrial South City with its success in agriculture and farming, but the residents of South City benefited from the quaint town's crops and animals. And the start of spring meant that Mt. Paozu would bring back its massive farmer's market, something Bulma would make the forty minute drive for. Nothing beat the fresh fruits and vegetables that she could bring home, or the eccentric sweets and other delicacies found in the mountain region. So with Chi Chi in tow, Bulma decided to drive down the following Saturday morning.

"I grew up here, you know," Chi Chi fiddled in her wallet for enough change to buy Gohan a raspberry pastry, "And it amazes me how busier they get every year."

Bulma blew into her puffed pastry, catching the peach dripping that spilled from the corners with her tongue. "I'm surprised you moved out of here. This seems like more your style of living."

"It really is," Chi Chi chuckled, handing over a piece of the treat to a starry eyed Gohan, "but with Goku being in the orchestra and all, it saved more money to move to the city. At least we found a quiet place in all of the loudness. Maybe we'll come back and move one day," she knelt down to the stroller, smiling widely at her toddler son, "What do you say Gohan? Should mommy and daddy move back with grandpa?"

"Grampa!" Gohan waved his hands wildly, slinging out raspberry preserves over the walk. Chi Chi sighed and stood, laughing to herself. They walked past various stands of multi colored fruits, rare vegetables, and signs that pulled Bulma in to spend more than she wanted to. The day was needed and welcomed, especially with Bulma's sadness that slept in her belly. Vegeta had been acting slightly off since he had taken her to the gravesite, and she just couldn't pin point _why_. Her insecurities plagued her, making her wonder if she had said something wrong, or if he realized a little too late that he had made a mistake in bringing her there. Bulma learned early on that Vegeta wasn't the type to break down his walls easily, and most of him was shrouded in mystery, but she also knew that he shared a part of himself with her that only she got to see.

Which is why she couldn't understand the distant behavior.

Maybe it was too personal for him, and he didn't know how to tell her. She shook off feelings of fearing the worst, that he was losing interest, knowing that what they were sharing was deeper than that. At least, she hoped so.

"And I was thinking I wanted to do white, but I don't know if it's hypocritical? What do you think, Bulma?"

Bulma came out of her thoughts, turning to look at Chi Chi going through various colored of hand woven fabrics. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Geeze," Chi Chi placed her hands on her hips and glared at her, "You weren't paying attention at all. I _said_ that Goku and I are renewing our vows!" She smiled and held the fabric around her frame, closing her eyes as she beamed. "We never had a real wedding before because we couldn't afford it, but now Goku's been making money with the orchestra, and I've been making some extra money in cooking for people, so I can have the wedding of my dreams!"

"That's great, Chi Chi!" Bulma couldn't help but be genuinely happy for her, remembering how Chi Chi would talk about her ideal wedding in college, so she knew this was a big deal for her. "I know it's going to be great, I can help you plan!"

"Thank you! There's only small things left to do," Chi Chi turned around, wrapping a scarf around her hair in the mirror and checking different angles, "I know it's soon, but we're going to have it next month. I want to get married at my dad's place, so the hardest part is taken care of."

"Wow," Bulma shook her head, "You guys work fast."

"You're telling me. You should see my Goku, planning with me and having things together on time. So unlike him. He even put together the guest list…" Chi Chi trailed off, looking at Bulma sheepishly. "Speaking of which..."

Something in Chi Chi's tone made Bulma look at her suspiciously, watching the way Chi Chi's brown eyes looked at her knowingly. "What is it?"

"Well, Goku invited Yamcha, and other than you two being in the same room, if you're there, then that means Vegeta will be too, right?"

Bulma swallowed, unsurprised that Chi Chi found out (most likely thanks to Yamcha), but she could spend hours talking about Vegeta, and she wasn't sure if this was the appropriate time. So instead she simply nodded.

"So, are you guys really dating? I overheard Goku and Yamcha talking about it, and I've been meaning to ask you." She set the fabric down and leaned on the stroller, resting her palm in her hand.

"Yeah," Bulma said after a pause, "We're dating."

"I would've never guessed," Chi Chi blinked at her rapidly, her large eyes looking in awe, "You two just seem like completely different people. I mean don't get me wrong, opposites attract and all, but you're so…so _nice_ compared to Vegeta."

Bulma felt her face growing hot, feeling mildly irritated at Chi Chi's words. Then she had to remember that she once saw Vegeta that way too, all brooding and mean and scowl faced. But only she had the luxury of touching the other side of sun, so it shouldn't be surprising that everyone was expecting her to get burned. But that was far from the case, and she wished that others could see it too.

"We're not _that_ different," Bulma began to pick through the carts of fabric herself, lingering too long over a magenta one, "We actually are more in tune than you might think- than _I_ initially thought. It's almost… _perfect._ "

"Almost?" Chi Chi rose an eyebrow, completely engulfed in Bulma's confession. True enough, Chi Chi was completely thrown back at this revelation. But if the serene expression that was captured on Bulma's face at the moment wasn't enough to convince her to listen onward, the gloomy flash in her eyes that followed her next words were.

"I don't know, Chi Chi, maybe I'm reading too much into this," Bulma scrunched the fabric in between her hands, avoiding her friend's pestering stare, "But I can't tell if he's upset with me? He's been kind of distant."

"You mean, he's not _always_ distant?"

"No!" Bulma whipped her head around, feeling her face scrunch up. She sighed and gripped her emotions. "No. In fact, I honestly feel like he's giving me the most he can right now. We have the best conversations, even if it's just me talking, and we can even focus on our own crafts while we drown in each other's silence. And don't get me started on the sex, my _god_. And sometimes the way he looks at me makes me think that he's going to suck me into the galaxy in his eyes."

"So then what's the problem?" Chi Chi's voice was soft, showing the first signs of concern. She hadn't expected the conversation to be this deep, especially since Bulma never dived into her relationship with Yamcha vocally. But Bulma was obviously fishing for advice, so Chi Chi was willing to bite. "That all sounds really incredible to me. Why are you upset?"

"Well…he shared something really personal with me. And I mean _really_ personal. And then afterwards, he just kind of got…quiet. And I'm not sure if he regrets it, or if he feels like I've gotten too close." Bulma took a deep sigh and then looked over at Chi Chi, throwing her a soft smile. "I just don't know what to think." And then there was the matter with the graveside, but she couldn't talk about Vegeta's personal life with Chi Chi. Just what had occurred that made Vegeta so guarded about the entire ordeal?

Chi Chi pursed her lips together, lost in thought. Gohan let out a fussy cry and stretched his arms outwards, grabbing her attention. She opened her purse to hand him a juice box when her eyes went wide. "Oh! I've got the perfect idea! Maybe you two just need a nice date night! Something to really spark a fire, you know?" Chi Chi smiled sweetly, resting her palms on her hips. "Dates can really bring back magic, or at least get you talking. Either way, it doesn't hurt to try!"

Bulma thought it over, her mind racing back to the last time they went on a date. How abruptly it ended, and how she had felt content with eating pizza and resting her feet in his lap while they watched old movies. But she'd be lying if she said she didn't want to try again, have a reason to get a little fancy and feel like a million bucks in the presence of Vegeta. "What kind of date do you have in mind?"

"My father gave me four tickets to the opera opening tonight, _Esercito a Nastro Rosso_. I've heard _nothing_ but good reviews. Anyways, it'll just be Goku and I, so maybe you guys could take the extra pair of tickets!"

Bulma's eyes opened widely as her brain ran laps around the idea. She _had_ heard great things about the opera, and she knew that Vegeta appreciated the genre as well. Maybe Chi Chi was right; maybe a date night would ease Vegeta's tension long enough to tell her what had him rattled so much in the first place.

She just hoped that his words wouldn't send her hurling over the cliff of her own insecurities.

oooOooo

It had taken an abundant amount of convincing- _way_ more than Bulma wanted to give, but in the end, Vegeta had agreed to go.

Not that his mood had let up at all. The drive to the theater was thundering in silence, save for the radio. It was a low hum, and mostly static due to the odd channel placement, but Bulma was grateful for something to fill the void. She scrunched her dress in her lap, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked so tense, so focused on the road. She wanted to reach over and smooth out the lines in his face, but her hands stayed dormant in lap, bunching up fabric.

The lights of downtown swirled in and out of her vision, and Bulma felt herself half watching them and half watching herself in the reflection of the glass. Her thick mascara and eyeliner only made her eyes look bluer, and she found herself reading the words that were tattooed in the color until she became dizzy. "Vegeta," she said finally, softly, looking at him through the window, "Do I look all right? For the opera, I mean. I wasn't sure how dressed up to get."

She saw his eyes dart towards her briefly, running over her before landing back on the road. His jaw smoothened and his eyes softened, and Bulma felt her heart flutter. "You look fine," he said, and she chuckled to herself at how mildly embarrassed he sounded before he added, "You look beautiful."

A small blush crept to her cheeks, adding to her carefully concentrated makeup, a small smile stealing her lips. Feeling brave, she reached over and grabbed his hand that rested on the gear shift, squeezing it briefly. "Thank you. You look pretty handsome too."

She could have painted his face with the shade of crimson if she wanted to, mainly to match the hue of his cheeks. He went back to the audience inside of his head again, and she let his hand go metaphorically with a sigh. She would wait, with iron patience, to see if the leech that was sucking the life out of Vegeta would let up.

She just really hoped Chi Chi was right.

Pulling up to the theater was at least able to take Bulma's mind off of the matter momentarily. The theater was enormous, the outside resembling an old castle the color of burnt wood. Gargoyle statues casted down judgement on the attendees as they ascended the steps to the entrance, gold light softly illuminating their bodies. It made Bulma feel like royalty, especially at Vegeta's side, her arm looped inside of his. He looked rather handsome in his black tuxedo, tailored in the right places to enhance his sculpted physique. She daydreamed for a moment that he was a prince escorting her back to her castle, albeit an intense prince who made the door greeter nervous when they entered.

Bulma marveled at the intricate design of the theater, enriched with its performance history. The walls were a warm shade of brown, scattered with framed posters of musicals, operas and the like. The carpeting was a bloody pool of red, threatening to sink any who dared to step on it. Soft music lulled over them via an older gentlemen in the corner, playing a waltz that had Vegeta humming. Bulma noticed that he was watching the pianist intently, likely critiquing his work. She let him have his moment before he turned and simply said, "He's good."

They found Chi Chi and Goku just outside of the ticket booth, laughing over each other in hushed secrecy. It made Bulma smile, thinking of the nights when she and Vegeta would be in a similar fashion, with him picking on her while she would be trying her best (and humorlessly worst) to defend herself. She gripped Vegeta's arm a little tighter, feeling a warmth radiating in her chest. Goku was the first to notice them, and he instantly rose to his feet while ceremoniously helping to Chi Chi to hers. Bulma laughed as she took Goku in with his suit. Although the tall man looked dapper in it, she got the sense that he would rather be wearing something less formal.

"Vegeta, Bulma!" He saluted them, a wide grin stealing his face, "I'm glad you could make it!"

"Likewise, Goku," Bulma extended her hand to shake it, but Goku brushed it aside and went in for a hug, making her a little startled. Although she had met Goku only on a handful of occasions, he always treated her like they were lifelong friends. "You look great, Chi Chi."

"Me? Look at you!" Chi Chi circled Bulma, nodding her head in approval, "You've just had this _sitting around_?"

Bulma smoothed out the front of her dress, an off the shoulder black number with lacy long sleeves, hugging her body snugly and covering her feet. "Actually, yes. I bought it for the company's Christmas party and haven't had the chance to wear it again."

"Well it's a good thing you have a reason to, it's gorgeous!" Chi Chi looked over at Vegeta, who was listening to Goku talk about music with an irritated look on his face, his hands shoved into his pockets. "What do you think, Vegeta? She looks good, doesn't she?"

Vegeta scowled, although he still roamed his eyes over to Bulma, conveying through his expression that he had meant what he said in the car. It was enough for her.

"Alright, I say we all go get our seats, shall we?" She walked over to Vegeta and placed his arm back through his, letting him lead them inside the grand, golden doors.

They found their seats in time as the lights faded into nothingness, casting the entire theater into a shadow of black. A woman's voice began to wail from the night, a soft yellow light slowly emitting over her head. She appeared to be sad as she sang in a language that Bulma didn't understand, and as the light came into focus, it was realized that she was singing over the body of someone- perhaps a lover. The scene around her was bloody, most likely the aftermath of a war, with several men in their armor fallen. The woman was beautiful, with long brown curls falling over her delicate features, and even from the angle they were in, Bulma could tell that she was crying. Her voice was a rollercoaster of pitches, her hands caressing the person's face, the gentle sounds of the orchestra serenading her cries. The show hadn't even properly started and the woman was eliciting emotions from Bulma that she was trying to stifle.

The woman ended her song with one long, high octave note, her bottom lip quivering with her vibrato, before the theater was cast in darkness again. Then the orchestra began to play a more livelier tune, one that was festive and quirky, before the lights came on again, showcasing a village bustling about, drinking beer from gourds and dancing around. A man began to talk to them in the same native tongue as the singer, but the dialogue was lost upon Bulma. Still, the music of the orchestra and the lively scenery was more than enough to keep her engaged, and if Vegeta tapping his knee rhythmically was any indication, he was enjoying himself as well.

The opera itself was magical, in her opinion, although something about it unsettled her. The story was about a maiden who had fallen in love with a prince, but the kingdom he came from was corrupted in war and evil misdoings. She had admired him from afar, singing praises of his name to anyone who would listen, even the king himself when he tried to cast her away from the court. From then on, the actress only wore the color blue, something that made Bulma's throat acidic. The prince, under the intense loyalty and pride for his father, fought for his kingdom no matter the cause, even when it meant arresting and killing the common villagers. It was on this mission that he had seen her, he in his bloody red and she in her magnificent blue, and when they sang to each other, the stage lights shined on them in the most royal shade of purple. It was so beautiful that Bulma found herself getting misty eyed, although she tried to wipe any traces of tears away with her program.

It was the climax of the opera, however, that had really choked Bulma up -and apparently did a number on Vegeta. The music was intense, the notes accompanied by shades of reds and oranges. The King in all of his evil glory waged a war with a nearby kingdom for his own greed, sending his army -and his son— into a bloody battle. In the end, the prince lost everything: his home, his father, and the war. He thought his lover died as well, and in his despair had taken his own life. But he was wrong, and the opera concluded with the same scene in the beginning, the beautiful woman crying over her lover before stabbing herself with his blade and collapsing on top of him, the soft shade of purple fading out until the theater was painted in black.

The applause that followed the opera was unanimous, aside from Bulma and Vegeta.

Bulma clutched the fabric of the dress over her stomach, her hand covering her mouth. She couldn't stop the tears that streamed down her face as she took in the final scene, the woman cradling her lover, how much hurt and despair she had to have felt. What would she do, she wondered, if that had been Vegeta? Why was she crying? Vegeta was sitting next to her, after all, his face as hardened as a brick and his mouth line tense and tight. She turned to look at him, but his eyes were focused elsewhere and his breathing was faster. His hands were clenched into tight fists, and Bulma reached over to settle them. His eyes found hers then, and she knew he could read the questions on her face. He looked down to her lap, letting his focus stay there for a moment, before slowly dragging them back to her face, his own expression apologetic. His fist relaxed under her touch and he intertwined his fingers with hers, their hands looking like a perfectly tied ribbon. She smiled at him and he briefly returned it, but there was something floating in his eyes that made her stomach turn.

The lights returned to their original brightness, making Bulma blink away to get readjusted. Goku and Chi Chi stood, talking fondly with each other about the performances. Bulma stood with them, plastering a porcelain smile on her face to contradict the jumbled anxiety on the inside. She could feel Vegeta standing behind her, quiet and solid like a stone wall, and she could feel his worries rolling off of his skin.

They exited the auditorium and made their way outside, standing under the glittering lights at the top of the stairs. Vegeta was turned slightly away from them, but his elbow brushed against Bulma's arm several times to let him know that he was still present. The Son family didn't seem to mind his distance, however, as they gushed over the opera itself.

"That was fun," Goku wrapped Chi Chi's shawl around her shoulders against the chilly night, "At first I thought it would be boring, but the music was _really_ good."

"Boring?" Chi Chi looked at him with disapproval, "You've really got to focus on something other than music, Goku. You're losing your sense of good taste."

"Don't worry about that, Chi Chi," Goku grinned at her goofily, "I'll always appreciate good music, even if I don't know what they're saying."

Chi Chi shook her head at him and smiled at Bulma, throwing her purse over her shoulder. "I had a good time, Bulma. I'll call you later on this week, I'd like to get back in time to put Gohan to bed properly."

Bulma put her hands up in a wave and smiled, feeling relieved to be able to get some alone time with Vegeta and hopefully get some soothing answers to her burning questions. While most couples spent time communicating their feelings vocally, Bulma was beginning to learn more and more that she and Vegeta operated on a mental level. Vegeta conversed with her with the sharpness of his eyes, with the curve of his mouth, the frowns of his eyebrows. He told her things that he would never say, and would most likely deny if she called him out on it. But there was no denying he had a look when there was something he wanted her to know.

And she was absolutely sure that he had just given her such a look back in the theater.

"Sounds good," she replied, "You guys get home safely."

She watched them go before turning to Vegeta, gently tugging on his sleeve and warmly smiling at him, leading him down the stairs. He was still silent; his head slightly tilted backwards so that he could watch the stars. Bulma watched the strong muscles in his jawline tighten, his lips slowly parting. He took a deep breath as they reached the end of the stairs and stopped while she continued walking forward.

"Bulma," his booming voice grabbed her attention, and she turned to face him, her face quizzical. He looked uncomfortable, his face twisting and contorting in a weird expression, his eyes roaming over his surroundings. She was about to interrupt him when he finally settled his gaze on her, his forehead scrunched. "I know what you want from me." He looked away from her then, a pained expression taking home on his face. "You want an explanation."

Bulma walked a bit closer, rubbing her hands together to protect against the chilly wind. She hadn't expected him to talk willingly, especially without her provocation.

"But I can't give you one."

Well, so much for that.

Her lips curved downward and she suddenly felt offended. "Why can't you, Vegeta? I know you're not the type to be an open book, but I can't help but feel like you're completely shutting me out."

"I _am_ shutting you out," he looked at her with hardened eyes, as if something was really plaguing him, "But only in _that_ regard. It's for your own good, Bulma."

Bulma folded her arms, trying to decipher what exactly Vegeta meant. Did he really think that being silent towards her was for _her_ benefit? "How could that possibly be for my own good, Vegeta?" She felt the insecurities gnaw at her like an underfed lion, making her look away from him. "I've been thinking that you regret taking me to meet your mother. Or that you didn't intend on getting so close with me."

She heard him growl, followed by heavy footsteps, until he was directly in front of her, his shadow swallowing her up. "Don't be an idiot, Bulma. I told you I didn't regret it; I knew _exactly_ what I was doing. It's just that," he grit his teeth and looked away, and Bulma found herself unable to tear her eyes away from him, "Of course you'll have your questions. But the answers that come with them will only get you involved. And the last thing I want or need is you involved."

"Involved with _what_?" Bulma felt herself practically pleading with him, seeing the small cracks appear in the stone face Vegeta was used to displaying. "Involved with _you_?"

"No, you're taking this the wrong way, which is what I was trying to avoid." He sighed; licking his lips and bringing his head back down to look at her squarely in the eyes, "Bulma, there's a part of me, of my past, that would only curse you if you even dared to look at it. Those problems are _mine_ and you don't need to deal with them."

"But what if I want to Vegeta?" She searched the remnants of his eyes to find the source of his isolated solution. Surely Vegeta had to know by now that there was more to her being with him than the fingerprints he left on her skin. She wasn't living in an illusion where Vegeta was some sort of saint. She was aware that Vegeta had been bitten by ice, and all she wanted to do was help him chip the sharp edges away. "Something awful had to have happened to you, and I understand why you wouldn't want to talk about it, but _you_ have to understand that I don't like to see you like this. Won't talking about it make you feel even a little better?"

He scoffed and shook his head, although his eyes softened somewhat. "It's not as simple as that, Bulma. If us talking about it meant that you wouldn't be looking at me like _that_ right now, then I would have talked long ago."

Bulma knew what he was talking about. The sentiment slept in her bones until she could no longer contain it, and now it spilled from her pores freely and completely captured her face. She pitied him and his family for whatever they had been through.

"Does it have anything to do with that guy at the grocery store?" Bulma's question came out small, knowing she was most likely treading on sensitive territory. She felt the way Vegeta tensed up during the opera when the prince watched his mother die at the hands of the enemy, while his father simply ran off to avoid his own fate. She could feel his discomfort with the scene spilling from his skin and unto her own. Her quizzical mind began spinning and concocting a theory. And according to Vegeta's changed expression, her hunch might have been correct.

He didn't say anything, not even to lie. His tongue was cemented, his eyes stuck on hers. Bulma felt slightly intimidated under the weight of his stare, but her knees didn't buckle.

"Bulma," he said finally, his voice low and restrained, "You could be walking into very dangerous waters just by knowing what's going on. Are you sure you want to do that?"

"For you, yes." The thought didn't even register in her mind before escaping from her lips, the words final. Vegeta's face looked confused for a second, as if he were expecting her to say different. His former expression returned and he continued.

"Those men are dangerous. My father got involved with them to borrow some money and he couldn't pay what he owed. So they came collecting, but the price included my father, mother and younger brother."

"Tarble." Bulma repeated the name from the gravestone, feeling her stomach sink down to her feet. She knew it was something awful, but she was expecting some sort of accident, or an illness that had taken hold on them. But Vegeta was standing here telling her that his family had been _killed_? _Intentionally_?

The revelation was tough to swallow.

"That's _terrible_ Vegeta," she choked out, "That….how could anyone…It's no wonder…"

Vegeta nodded, sighing. "They still want the money, even with the blood of my family on their hands. And _that's_ why I don't want you involved. They'll use any means to get what they want, even if that means coming after you."

"Well, how much is it? I could help you, Vegeta. I don't want anything to happen to you, we make more than enough money at the company, I could ask my dad-"

"No, Bulma!" Vegeta grabbed her wrists gently, pulling her in closer to him. "This is what I mean. Stay out of this; I can take care of them myself. I didn't even want to tell you, but I did so it's done."

"I can't just stay out of it, Vegeta! What if something happens to you?"

"Let me worry about that," he swallowed roughly, "That's not your burden to bear."

"Not my burden to bear?" Bulma stared at him incredulously, her eyes darting back and forth between his. "How could it _not_ be my burden to bear? I can't just turn off the part of me that cares, Vegeta. I can't just sit back and watch someone I love go through this alone!"

Vegeta stared at her shockingly, and it was only when he released her that she realized the weight of what she had said. He pulled away from her slightly and she allowed him to, although her skin became cruelly cold with the lack of his body heat.

There was no taking it back now. It was out there and he had heard it, and more importantly than that, she had meant it. Still, she had seen this conversation happening on different circumstances, and with Vegeta looking less flustered.

She cleared her throat, keeping her eyes on him although she wanted so desperately to look away. But Bulma was tired of wondering, tired of keeping her mouth shut and blocking resolutions from manifesting. She loved Vegeta, there was no denying that, but she didn't want to

"Am I alone in that?" She asked, finding ground to her shaky voice, "In how I feel, am I alone?"

He looked at her long and hard, and she suddenly felt uneasy that she had asked a question that maybe she didn't want an answer to. But then his face turned genuinely serious, and he replied, "No. You're not."

Bulma felt as if her feet would carry her away, like she could take flight and sing of her happiness just like the singers in the opera. Instead she settled on smiling, her teeth dazzling white under the moon rays. No, Vegeta wouldn't make an declaration of his love, and truth be told she didn't want him to. She wanted him to be authentic.

And there was nothing more authentic than his admission.

She worked on closing the gap between them, nodding her head, her radiant smile unable to leave her face despite the events that slept between them. "If that's the case, don't push me away from this. If I'm walking into danger, let me handle it. But at least allow me to walk with you through it."

She saw his face ready to protest, his mouth greedily full of rebuttals, but then he breathed and relaxed, apparently choking down the words. "All I need for you to do is what you've been doing. Nothing more, nothing less."

Bulma nodded, feeling a fair compromise. She wasn't exactly sure what she _could_ do to ease the pain of the situation, especially considering that Vegeta's eyes expressed that there was more to the story. But she would have to trust that he would handle it, and also trust that he wouldn't distance himself from her again, now that she knew the truth.

Despite the gravity of his truth, despite the fact that her brain was clogged with the knowledge of the tragedy that happened to Vegeta and his family, and despite that she so desperately wanted to avoid her life playing out like the singer on stage, Bulma was _happy_.

Because walking under the full moon, on an otherwise beautiful night, Bulma Briefs was in love.

And there wasn't too much that could stand in the way of that.

oooOooo

_**A/N: Okay, so I'm typing this with such relief because whew! I struggled SO HARD on this chapter. So I really hope it turned out good for you guys!** _

_**Now that things have settled down a bit, I should be back on a regular updating schedule. If in any case has another case of the blunders, you guys can always check my Tumblr for chapter update notifications. My Tumblr username is Bitchii-Usa. (And if you search hard enough, you can see some of my DBZ cosplay as Android 17 and Bulma from the convention!)** _

_**Well, that's all I really got for you guys, other than to please R &R! As always, they make my day in the best of ways! Speaking of, one of the reviews I got really warmed my heart. Every single last review makes me so happy I could probably run around the planet, but some of you guys really know how to warm my heart. Thank you Kay Kay for your meaty good review (since it's a guest, I have to 'shout you out here') and I'm SO happy you decided to give this story a try. And of course a thousand thank yous to everyone who is so kind enough to read a review. Sometimes I spend an embarrassing amount of time rereading them because they make me so incredibly happy. If I could, I'd send you all Vegebul souvenirs in the mail!** _

_**Until next time, friends!** _


	17. Propositions and Admissions

_**Concerto Seventeen: Propositions and Admissions (NSFW)** _

_**A/N: Is that lemon Pine-Sol I smell?!** _

oooOOOooo

The following fact stained the inside of Vegeta's teeth with cigarette ashes, and no matter how many times he washed them with his tongue, he couldn't get rid of the bitter taste: the cello section, minus Yamcha, didn't sparkle and shine like it once had.

It pained him to admit it – _cruelly_ painfully so- and he would never let the vile admission cross the threshold of his lips. For all he cared, Yamcha could burn in hell. He had disrespected him in front of his entire orchestra, and he had almost claimed the beauty that was Bulma's freedom (which Vegeta wasn't sure if he should actually be _thanking_ the man for). Either way, Yamcha would never hear the satisfaction of Vegeta giving a damn about him returning or not. Absolutely no way in hell.

But there was something missing as he danced his arms to and fro in front of the members of the orchestra, letting their music serenade him as he guided them in the milky waters of the second page. He could taste every sharp raise of each note that blew in his direction like purple wind, and no matter how sweet the melody sounded, there was something unfulfilling that brewed in his belly.

The empty chair in the cellist section -which Vegeta hadn't bothered to fill yet- was haunted with images of the shaggy haired man and his dimming light bulb of a grin, holding his cello close and playing to race the impressive tempo of Tien. It was their dynamic that added to the reason of why Vegeta had never let Yamcha take first chair. Some people, as Vegeta discovered, needed some sort of motivation to be their absolute best. For Yamcha, it was the finish line that he would never cross, the trophy that he would never hold. It made the music as sharp as the edge of a sword, and Vegeta was beginning to miss the bleeding cuts that would litter his face after he circled his hands to a finish. Without the man there, although it was a _lot_ quitter and less annoying, the music did just not have that certain _bite_.

Which was why Vegeta was standing on his podium, his face cloudy with a storm, his arms folded across his chest from having stopped the rehearsal abruptly. He could tell they were annoyed with him, especially with their concentrated faces focused so heavily on the papers before them, but he really did not care. He required their perfection, and his ears were telling him clearly that they were falling short.

He grinded his teeth together and felt a deep rumble causing a tornado in his chest. In a low tone, he barked out, "Again. From the beginning."

Moans escaped the adults in the room as they shuffled in their sheets. He could feel his cheeks burn with their heated stares, but he was determined to not get smoldered. After all, they had seen what their options were if they didn't want to play by his rules.

"Is there a problem?" He asked rhetorically, not wanting to hear their gripes. "The last time I checked, this was an orchestra, not a babysitting service for your tempers."

"There _is_ a problem," 18 bit harshly, her icicles for eyes glaring at him, "And it's looking directly at me. Surely you can't ask us to play it again, even though it's damn near perfect."

"Says who?" Vegeta snarled, not liking the tone of her voice, "If it _was_ perfect, I wouldn't spend so many hours grueling over this play through. I have better things to do with my time."

"Well what's wrong with it?" She narrowed her eyes, a challenge. "If it's _so_ bad, then tell us what we need to work on. Otherwise you're just making us drive around in circles. And quite frankly, I'm getting bored."

Vegeta felt his irritation rev up, like a car being accelerated while parked, and he was about to let the anger curl over the edges of his skin. He sputtered, wanting to give her a proper reply, but each trail led to the absence of Yamcha. They weren't off key, the notes weren't falling over each other, and everyone stayed in their place while giving support to each other. But it didn't sound remarkable, and Vegeta wouldn't settle for less than remarkable. He wasn't telling them that, especially not the cold eyed woman staring him down.

"Yeah Vegeta," Goku scratched his head, raising an eyebrow in question towards the podium, "I don't get why we keep going over it again. I mean, _you said_ it was perfect before. What changed?"

"Do you think it's because Yamcha is gone?" Krillin tried to unsuccessfully lean over and whisper to 18, but Vegeta had his eyes on him before the sentence could escape his lips. "It _does_ sound slightly different without an extra cello player."

"Then he shouldn't have thrown a tantrum," Tien proved that Krillin was a terrible whisperer as he spoke, uncaring that his voice was at a normal speaking level, "Don't get me wrong, a piece of the puzzle is missing here, but that doesn't mean that it needs to be filled by Yamcha specifically."

"Awhhh don't be like that, Tien," Goku pleaded, "He could turn it around, you know."

"Yeah," Krillin agreed, giving up on speaking for the dead to hear, "I think the guy is just going through a lot and got caught up in the storm of things. Give him time."

"Inexcusable," Tien folded his arms, but Vegeta didn't miss the look that flashed over the man's features. He was being tough, justifiably so, but he could tell that Tien liked their musical dynamic as well. "We all go through things. It doesn't mean you shit on the ones who are always down to help you."

"I'm just saying, Tien, maybe-"

"Enough with this chatter!" Vegeta's voice echoed through the hall, cutting off Krillin. His forehead throbbed with the regret of this debate. "I don't give a _damn_ about Yamcha. Nor do I want to stand here and listen to the unpopular opinions of any of you. Despite the fact that you all have the honor to be playing in this orchestra, this is still a _job._ A job that you all should be fighting to be the best at, not painting each other's toes and talking about ghosts! So tell me what's more important to you: Yamcha acting like a clown, or getting this piece together for the concert? Or have you all just _forgotten_ about the scout from Broadway coming?"

The reminder caused them to straighten their backs and regain their posture, their lips closing off their protests. Vegeta relaxed his shoulders, relieved to see them getting back to the atmosphere that he needed to create again. "Let's get one thing straight, scout or not, I will not have my name soiled with lackluster playing. So if I say that we need to practice again, _then we're practicing again_. I didn't make it this far by coddling my orchestra when they were too tired. I am not your mother, and I am not here to pat you on the back and send you into the world with juice and crackers. And if any of you even want a _chance_ to get to the level I'm at, then you need to put in the time and dedication in to perfecting your craft, no matter how _done_ you think you are. If not, don't even think about _blinking_ in the direction of this Broadway scout."

The room was blanketed with their silence, and even 18 had directed her eyes back to her stand, although her jaw was tight. Vegeta felt a powerful wave wash over him with satisfaction, even though his tongue burned with the words that he didn't say. Krillin _was_ right after all, but it would be a cold day in hell before Vegeta found himself asking dogs to bark for him.

The sounds of clapping created a thunderstorm in the theater, causing everyone to turn towards the entrance. Vegeta's annoyed facial expression tightened into a shock, and he grabbed onto his stand to ready his composure.

"What a wonderful speech, Vegeta!" The person was leaning against the door, the clapping decreasing until it faded out into soft touchings of skin. "You sound so authorative!"

A few mumbles were shared within the orchestra, but Vegeta was unable to pay attention to them. His stomach met his feet and he swallowed, wishing that this wasn't happening in a place he had stamped as a safe zone. The person laughed, pushing away from the wall and walking towards the podium.

"Oh don't look like _that,_ Vegeta. I promise I'm here on _good_ terms."

The statement melted away the frozen edge of Vegeta's posture, causing him to clench his teeth. "There's _nothing_ good about seeing you, Zarbon."

Zarbon laughed, throwing his silky green hair over his shoulder. His eyes glinted with a dangerous humor towards Vegeta, his irises the color of spitfire. "That's not really fair, don't you think?" He threw his arms up to show his lack of a threat, his pearly white teeth lighting up the room, "You haven't even given me a chance. I only came to talk."

Vegeta grit his teeth and found his chest poking out with vengeance. As he watched the light shine over the gold in Zarbon's earring, he could only see images of the man cornering Bulma in the grocery store, threating her life in a (not so) subtle way. It made him burn with a rage that he didn't know he was capable of, like a rabid animal defending its territory. His intense feelings for Bulma made him realize how far he was willing to go to keep her safe as he envisioned taking Zarbon out here and now.

"So what will it be, Vegeta? Do you want to have this conversation right here? Or should we take it outside where it's a bit more… _private_?" A hint of mischief shone in Zarbon's eyes, making Vegeta's blood run icily cold. For a brief moment, his mind wandered to Bulma, wondering just how she would take it when she learned that he was killed by Zarbon. Vegeta was no punk, and his father had made it his mission to make sure his sons were not picked over mongrels, but he was kidding himself if he thought taking Zarbon on wouldn't lead to his own demise.

So he nodded his head and stepped down from the podium, ignoring the questioning faces of the orchestra that lingered behind. He could hear their whispers, taste their theories about what was taking place, and even heard Goku question whether it was all right or not if he went out there with him. Vegeta growled and yelled over his shoulder, "Take a break. Drink some water and hydrate yourselves. And when I return, I expect we will have better results."

He didn't say it aloud, but the phantom thought of, _If I return_ echoed in his head as he exited the theater doors behind Zarbon.

oooOOOooo

Not even the cool shade of shadows in the alleyway could douse the fire coursing through Vegeta's veins.

He studied Zarbon with a furious gaze, watching as the man propped himself against the brick wall of the theater and lit a cigarette, the green undertones of his skin glinting even through the shade the building provided. He inhaled and locked his eyes with Vegeta, the indents of his mouth curving upwards into a deceptive grin. He looked like a snake; a grotesque lizard that Vegeta would rather stomp with the heel of his boot rather than disgrace his eyes further.

"You could at least loosen up, Vegeta," he teased in that effeminate voice of his. "I already told you I'm not here to bite you. I'm sure that can happen some other time, if that beautiful creature would allow it," he licked his lips suggestively, his eyes inviting Vegeta into some sort of dangerous game.

Vegeta felt like he was about to explode. Zarbon knew how to toy with his anger, using his lean physique and soft figure to appear harmless, but Vegeta knew better. Zarbon was ruthless, the top minion that Frieza liked to send out to do his business. He was sharp and witty, and his methods of producing results were nothing short of malicious. Vegeta knew the familiarity of Zarbon's torment, and he refused to get stung by it. "Save your bullshit, Zarbon. Get to the purpose of you being here. Frieza said he wasn't going to bother me until it was time to collect his money. I still have time."

"And Frieza is a man of his word," Zarbon blew out white wisps of smoke into the sky, watching as it curled rhythmically around the wind, "He would _never_ go against his final word. After all, what good is a man if he doesn't abide by his word? Surely you know this." He laughed wickedly and stared downwards at Vegeta, a secret playing in his eyes. "So _that_ has nothing to do with my visit today, in fact, I just so happen to come with a _solution_."

"A solution." Vegeta repeated the words, letting the acidity of them stain his tongue. "There's only one of two solutions Frieza would send you here for. I won't beg for my life."

"My, my," Zarbon shook his head and sucked on the stick of his cigarette, "How dramatic. It's clashes with that whole broody thing you've got going on, Vegeta. I must admit, it's your most endearing quality, so don't tarnish that. I'm not even in the mood to get my hands dirty. Red just doesn't _go_ with my outfit today," he pulled on his gold blazer, the tousles hanging from his shoulders dancing along with him. "But if you're just _dying_ to have me touch you, perhaps we can work out something else-"

Vegeta growled with a warning and Zarbon threw his head back and laughed, the sounds coming out as words.

"There it goes, the broodiness that just gets my _blood_ boiling. If only your father had your charms, perhaps things would have ended differently, no? Either way, wipe that look off of your face and listen up, my little fire flame. Frieza would like to discuss a proposition with you. A _business_ proposition."

"What kind of _business?_ ," Vegeta's belly burned with the knowledge of Zarbon's undertone, but he played in his hands anyways.

"The kind that can erase your little debt problem. If you ask me, it's like a coupon for you. A one-time use only coupon that is."

Vegeta blinked away in disbelief. Business with Frieza that could eliminate this dark cloud all together? It sounded too good to be true, and other than Bulma being in his life, he had learned early on that it usually meant that it was.

"….What is he asking of me, Zarbon?"

"Well that is out my expertise, Vegeta," Zarbon pulled himself away from the wall and stomped out his cigarette, carefully making sure that his boot did not become scuffed, "So I suggest that you visit Frieza at his office. You remember the place, right? I'm sure your daddy mentioned it quite a few times." He smiled widely at Vegeta, like he was dying to tell the punchline to a joke that only he found amusing. Vegeta bit down on his jaw with the weight of a brick, causing his teeth to cry in pain. He loosened his jaw, but the dark expression that painted his face remained, threatening to swallow Zarbon whole.

"Well, I'd best be going. My dry cleaning won't do itself. It's all fun and games until the blood ruins your favorite cardigan," he frowned sincerely as if Vegeta was supposed to pity him, "I suppose I should really think about buying a wardrobe that is stain resistant. These jobs can be overwhelming, you understand?"

"No," Vegeta bit harshly, forcing the words out through the prison gates of his teeth, "I don't know anything about that."

Zarbon grinned and shrugged his shoulders, his gaze locked in the center of Vegeta's pupils. "A pity. Who knows what the future holds for you?" He let his eyes stay focused on Vegeta as he walked past him and towards the street, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes. Vegeta watched him from behind, his vision the shade of red. Like hell he was going to visit Frieza. Zarbon could take his information and shove it up his-

"Oh, and Vegeta?" Zarbon ceased his walking, looking over his shoulders and raising his glasses, "Don't think that you can stand Frieza up with this meeting. I'd stake your life on him declaring the manner rude. At the very least, you can hear him out." He shaded his eyes again and grinned, enjoying the look of rage that enveloped Vegeta's face. And then he sauntered off, the clicks of his boots combating the pavement, the stains of his nicotine words ringing in Vegeta's ears.

oooOOOooo

The outskirts of South City were desolate at best; a ghostly reminder of a place that _used_ to thrive.

Now the tattered buildings groaned with warning to outsiders, the orange sands of the roads engraved with the footprints of those who called the place home, and violently made sure it stayed that way. It contrasted the city Vegeta knew comfortably, but his father had raised him to have leather skin and steel bones, even if that meant stepping into the devil's pit.

Even if that meant having a dance with him too.

Vegeta shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he drove over the rocky terrain, clutching his steering wheel tighter. What Frieza wanted with him he didn't know, but avoiding him all together would as wise as kissing the barrel of a loaded gun. His foot pressed down heavier on the accelerator, a sudden surge of anxiety weighing through his body. In that moment, for the slightest of a second, Vegeta felt pity for himself.

Why, he wondered with contempt, couldn't he have just been able to live his days peacefully? Why did the sins of his father reign down on him in judgment, casting him into some sort of wicked damnation? Why couldn't he just immerse himself in the ocean of music, bathing freely in the blue kissed waters of Bulma, and carry out his destiny as he so chose?

Vegeta was beginning to think life was a cruel joke, and Frieza seemed to be the jester telling it.

Reality struck him like a flash of lightning and he straightened his posture, taking a deep breath. Any trace of doubt left his face, replaced by a serious scowl. Worrying wouldn't do him any good, even though for the first time in a long time, Vegeta had a reason to care about the breaths he took and how he took them.

He parked his car at an abandoned strip mall and walked towards the alley, making his way through an unexpected bustle of civilians. They ceased their talks as he approached, their eyes following his movements as he made his way past a few shop stands advertising various foods. He could feel the stares that watched him from the rusted shutters of the buildings, speaking in hushed tones. He even heard a slip of Frieza's name as he reached his destination of a black door, hiding through a narrow crack in the walls.

The echoes of his knocking paraded around his ears, and he was instantly met with a cold pair of black eyes through the peek hole, a deep rumble of a laugh emerging through the other side of the door. It opened swiftly, and before Vegeta could raise an eyebrow, he was pulled inside, his body becoming washed in the purple lights of the room.

Frieza's lair was dark with mischief; an eerie green bulb glowing over a pool table where several of his workers were fumbling with their sticks. They stopped and looked at Vegeta as he entered, their faces smiling deviously.

"Well, well, I didn't think he'd come so soon," the man said from behind him, circling around Vegeta, "Zarbon delivered that message only a few hours ago."

Vegeta scowled, watching as the man's smile disappeared behind his fat, grotesque face. His oily skin reflected the purple and green lights in an obscene way, a visible lack of bodily care evident in his body odor and warts that littered his face.

"He's punctual, Dodoria," one of the pool players remarked darkly, "He's nothing like his father."

"Indeed," Dodoria smiled, showing off his yellowed teeth proudly, " _Nothing_ like his father at all. I can see why Frieza is interested. We like punctuality over here. Waiting gives us ideas, after all," he chuckled, earning deep laughs from his comrades. Vegeta swallowed his retaliation of words, knowing that his sharp tongue would only produce self-inflicted wounds.

"I came to see Frieza, so I would _appreciate_ it if you took me to him," Vegeta tried to mask his irritation, but it seeped through the pores of his face, invading his mouth. He was happy his teeth weren't made of glass, that way they didn't break as he slammed his jaw down with uncontrollable weight.

"So eager to see him, are we?" Dodoria smiled toothily and turned his back to Vegeta, glancing at him over his shoulder. "You sure you want to be in a rush?"

Vegeta growled but did not respond, letting his words build in his mouth until he thought he was going to choke. He followed the obese man past the group of pool players, ignoring their condescending glares and quiet chuckles. Each step taken felt like a knife wound to the back, and each swallowed remark he made only deepened the cut until the pain ached dully in his bones.

Dodoria led him down a spiral staircase to a basement, the lights above blinking sporadically, bringing the old and tattered wall paint to focus. Vegeta clenched his fists as they reached an iron door, heavily guarded by a security system. Dodoria punched in some elaborate code and pressed his finger to the scanner, causing it to open slightly. He leaned against the frame and smiled down to Vegeta, nodding his head towards the entryway. "Go ahead," he said in a raspy, deep voice, "The boss is waiting for you."

A red glow possessed the room by way of a crystal chandelier, drowning it entirely in blood. Frieza sat at a black desk, his hands folded neatly under his chin, the white fabric of his suit snuggly fitting his body. His lips were darkened to the skin of an eggplant, dramatically contrasting his snow covered skin, the indents curving into a perfectly planted smile, oozing with poison.

"Well, hello Vegeta," he purred whimsically, the reds of his eyes intensifying under the lights, "How delightful for you to come," he motioned his hand towards a black chair in front of the desk, and Vegeta felt as if he were asking him to sit over a pit of flames. "Won't you have a seat? I wouldn't want you uncomfortable."

The sugar in Frieza's voice made Vegeta's stomach churn. He could see his reflection burning in the pits of Frieza's devilish eyes. For a second longer than he would have liked, Vegeta felt the fear that slept in the spaces of Frieza's name. "I'll stand," he croaked out, folding his arms across his chest to keep himself steady.

"Oh hoh," Frieza chortled, leaning back in his chair and resting his hands behind his head. "Why so serious, Vegeta? I'm sure Zarbon informed you that this was a friendly visit, no?"

"I somehow doubt that you want to have a _friendly_ conversation with me."

"How rude," Frieza's face smoothened out to a stone wall, but his eyes danced with the humor of a demon, threatening to pierce its fangs into Vegeta. "To call me a liar in my own domain. You are most certainly like your father in that regard."

The knife twisted further into Vegeta's back as he watched the joy of being coy spread across Frieza's face. His anger was sprinkling into sand, threatening to break the foundation of the walls to his sanity. He wondered in that moment if he was standing in the same spot his father was in when he begged Frieza for more time, more mercy.

His father was a fool.

"Well, how about I make this short then? I wouldn't want to waste your time; you _are_ a busy man, after all." Frieza's normal shrill voice lowered, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "Thanks to your imbecile of a father, I was shortened out of a _lot_ of money, a debt you so generously took on." A face splitting grin spread over his features like a slow leak until his face was full of amusement. "I suppose that must be hard for you, having to pick up daddy's tab, especially after all of the money he left you went up in smoke. Such a pity, having to climb another man's mountain when you can't even make it past the first rock. I can't imagine that being easy for you."

Frieza stood and circled his desk, his hands planted firmly behind his back. He leaned against the front of the black wood, standing impossibly straight. "But I can make that _all_ go away like ash in the wind. You see, I am a fair man, and I try to make sure that all who work for me are happy. After all, positive results are only gained when your team is _thrilled_ to work for you."

"I _don't_ work for you."

"Not _yet._ " Frieza held up a finger, his tongue emphasizing his syllables. "And if you agree to this job I offer you, then I will consider you debt cleared and your slate wiped clean."

"And just what _is_ this job?"

"A simple one that even _you_ can do. I know that brain of yours is just _full_ of notes and music and songs, but this is so delightfully plain that you shouldn't spontaneously combust. You see, I'm trying to _expand_ , Vegeta. The money that I once made here just won't _do._ " A deliciously sinful smile stole Frieza's mouth and he walked slowly towards Vegeta, a hint of mischief playing in his eyes. "I've discovered that - after _quite_ a bit of research on my end- the very important person attending your concert is a talent scout from Broadway. Isn't that something?"

"What are you getting at, Frieza?"

"Don't be so _impatient_ , Vegeta. It's extremely childish, don't you agree? Well, the rumor is that he's specifically scouting _you_ ," he pointed an accusatory finger at him, "And with your _divine_ talent, I'm almost certain that you'll get the job. New York City is such a large playground, isn't it? The _perfect_ place to expand my business. And with your help, I can soon have it in the palm of my hands!"

"What makes you think," Vegeta grit his teeth, "That I would ever help _you_?"

Frieza laughed heartedly, as if Vegeta had just entertained him with a comedic banter. "What better way to make your debt disappear, Vegeta? It's a fair compromise, especially on my part. It's not like I'm asking you to _kill_ someone, I just want you to distribute samples of my delicacies. Think of all the _other_ important people you'll be subjected to. I've always heard that art is fueled by a brain under the influence. It's simple, really."

 _Simple really_. Vegeta's ears threatened to bleed at the casual tone of Frieza's words. There was no confirmation that Vegeta was going to be hand selected by the scout - even if he _had_ heard that he was a big contender for the spot – and if it were the case, then Frieza was out of his mind if he believed Vegeta would market his drugs for him. The mere idea of doing Frieza a personal favor made an uncomfortable weight anchor down in his chest, but he managed to keep it afloat. "I refuse," he said flatly, carefully enunciating each syllable.

Frieza's face darkened immediately, the final remnants of a smile dissolving from his features altogether, and he narrowed his eyes in Vegeta's direction. "Is that so? You haven't even heard my proper offer."

"I don't care," Vegeta swallowed as he took in Frieza's transformation of faces, but he stood firmly in his composure, "I refuse. You'll get your money before I ever work for you."

"Hmm, _interesting_ ," the indents in Frieza's mouth began to pull upward, "Well, it is _your_ choice in the matter anyways, isn't it? If that is your preferred method, then I will oblige by your wishes. We can just stuck to our original business. Speaking of which, it seems that I've gotten a slip of the brain and have forgotten how much you owe me. Dodoria?"

Instantly, the door creaked open and the obese man stepped through, the floorboards groaning under his heavy weight, his sweaty cheeks tinted pink from his movements.

"Dodoria, what _is_ the amount of money that Vegeta's daddy owed me? Be sure to include years of interest _plus_ an inconvenience fee. You know, the regular."

Dodoria smiled malevolently, running his eyes over towards Vegeta. A small chuckle escaped his lips as he answered, "Well with all of that included, boss, I believe it's a whopping total of three hundred thousand dollars."

The remaining breaths that lingered in Vegeta's chest were evicted, sending his head in fury of dizziness. He stared at Dodoria widely before turning to Frieza, barely able to pull his tongue away from the roof of his mouth. "That's more than double of the original debt, Frieza. You expect me to pay that to you in less than a month?!"

Frieza shrugged, walking around to his desk and appearing to be bored with having Vegeta present. "It's a generous offer, really. Five years of no payments and me wasting my time trying to contact you means that the debt has increased. It's business, you know. I'm sure you'll work out _something_." Frieza sat down and propped his feet on the table, clicking his fingers towards Dodoria. "He can leave now."

Vegeta stepped back from him, his eyes burning with a fury of blinding rage. Where the hell was he supposed to come up with this kind of money? And on such short notice? "I can let myself out," he snarled in Dodoria's face, walking towards the door.

"Vegeta," Frieza called from behind, "If you have trouble making the payments by the due date, I can always arrange other ways again. Zarbon just _cannot_ shut up about your lady friend. I might even assume he's _jealous_ of her. He says that she is the daughter of Trunks Briefs, founder of Capsule Corporation? I know that means she's pretty wealthy, right?" A sly smile kidnaped his lips, his eyes narrowing sleepily. "I wonder how many dollars she can bleed out. What's the value of her screams and suffering? With a face like that, I'm willing to bet _thousands_."

Vegeta's body shut down, making him freeze in his steps. He was satisfied that his back was to them, otherwise they would see the spirits in his eyes that cried in agony. Frieza making such a direct threat on Bulma's life made him dizzy with ire, and it crippled him even further to know there was nothing he could even _do_ other than pay what was owed.

After all, there was no price too great to ensure Bulma's safety. And even if he had to watch his own fingers dissipate to ash and smoke, he would pay Frieza his money for her sake.

So with his phantom tail between his legs, he briskly walked out of the office, every heavy step a direct curse to Frieza's name.

oooOOOooo

The sky was an ocean of lavenders and oranges, the colors blending together to create a peaceful backdrop for Vegeta's drive. The radio off and the wind loud, he allowed his brain to run circles around his anxieties. He wished he could feel as serene as the calm sky, but he was a thunderstorm. In less than an hour, Frieza had managed to add a pillar of stress on his shoulders, making him sink further down into his seat.

He ran his hand down his face, his fingers going damp of the sweat from his forehead. He cursed and slammed his palm against the wheel, accidentally making it sing. He took a deep breath, trying to get a grip on his rising emotions. Especially since he was on his way to see her.

She had texted him during his visit with Frieza, and even just seeing her name on his phone tentatively lifted his worries. _Meet me at the loft, Dad wants me to go over the final inspection. Plus, I have_ _ **really**_ _good news [winky face, heart]._

He knew what he had promised her, he tasted the words that spilled so effortlessly from his tongue after the opera. All Bulma wanted was his safety and protection, woven tightly with a ribbon of his honesty. And he could give it to her, he really could, but worrying her with his tumbleweed of a problem he hadn't even _begun_ to unravel was impossible. After all, he didn't want to rain on her parade of good news.

His mind was still tangled as he pulled in the lot of the loft, taking a moment to gain his composure. He spotted her car sitting under the shade of thick tree branches, looking perfectly still in a sea of calamity. He suddenly felt guilty, having to put her in situations that she didn't deserve to be in. His selfish feelings wrapped her in his cocoon, and he was wondering if he should do the proper thing and let her go, like Nappa had questioned.

Then an image of her came to the forefront of his mind, her skin tattooed with his name, and he quickly spit out the idea.

He finally composed himself enough to enter the loft, and as soon as he the door allowed him entry, he was dizzy with the scent of her. It was subconsciously becoming a fragrance that Vegeta loved, a mix of blue seawater and rose petals, one that hugged him like a warm fire on a chilly night. He found her by his piano, scribbling away on a note pad.

Her eyes lit up marvelously when she looked at him, the corners of her mouth threatening to split her face in two. "Hi," she sang, running over to him immediately. Her face was radiant, only the simplest of makeup accentuating her delicate features, her cherry lips begging him to kiss them. She snaked her arms around his midsection, wrapping her soft frame around him in a genuine embrace, pressing her cheeks to his chest. His arms, by their own doing, curved around her back, gently stroking her skin. It was the equivalent of hugging the sun, and he could feel her rays brighten the shadows of his plaguing qualms. "I'm so happy to see you," she muffled through the fabric of his shirt, "You smell nice."

"Hmph," he grinned, "Well lucky for you I showered today."

"You should do it more often. You smell like an autumn breeze." She pulled her head away from his chest, tilting backwards so she could look at him. The purity of her eyes made him relax, intoxicating him with a look that was reserved for their privacy.

"What's your good news?" He reached up to move a piece of hair that stuck to her lips, tucking it behind her ear so he could see her with as much naked clarity as possible.

Her expression beamed then, smiling widely as if she was a giddy toddler who learned to walk for the first time. "Well, I went down to the art village today after working with my dad, and I came across a gallery that just opened up. Remember when you told me I should make a portfolio of all my paintings? Well you were _so_ right! They were looking for local artists to feature for their next show, and after taking a look at my stuff, they told me they'd be honor to feature me! People can even buy them, Vegeta!"

A strong sense of pride swirled in his abdomen, racing through his body until it found the home of his mouth. He knew the first time he laid eyes on Bulma's paintings that she had an exquisite touch. Her use of colors and subjects were mesmerizing, drinking him in until he was nothing more than a hypnotized stare. He knew they started off _extremely_ rocky, especially on his part, but he pushed her because he saw a bright potential that she kept in darkness. But now, she bathed in light, letting it roll off of her flesh until even _he_ rivaled the sun. If everyone else could see it too, then their arguments and petty banter of the past was worth even more than he thought.

"You should be proud," he stated sincerely, feeling an intense admiration capture him until he could taste it, "Your talent deserves the recognition it hasn't been getting. I hope you take this opportunity and run with it."

She smiled at him affectionately, wrapping her arms tighter around him until her chest poured into his. "I _was_ actually thinking of opening my own gallery, you know. If it goes well and people like it this time, maybe I can. I feel so much better now that I'm painting more, like I'm finally doing what I'm supposed to be doing." She batted her eyelashes shyly at him, her cheeks tinting pink. "I owe a lot of that to you, Vegeta. You really believed in me, even when I wasn't thinking of believing in myself."

He swallowed, uncomfortable with the sudden shift of praise. Although it made his ego purr like a kitten, he wanted Bulma to know that it was _her_ talent and _her_ commitment to finally start living for herself. He may have put gas in the car, but it was she who got behind the wheel to drive it.

"So how was your day? Did rehearsal run late for you today?"

His face dropped immediately at the reminder, and the expression on her face let him know she didn't miss it. "Tell me what happened," she said seriously, her eyes reminding him of the promise he was intending to break.

He felt his resolve weakening, especially under the weight of her heavy stare, and he cleared his throat of the words he couldn't form a sentence from. Bulma ran a palm down his solid back, deft fingers lightly massaging his back. "Vegeta," she pressed onwards, "What is it?"

He sighed, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. Bulma wasn't going to let up, and him avoiding the inevitable would only show her that he wasn't a man of his word. So he tucked his pride in the folds of his fingers and opened his mouth. "I went to see Frieza today."

Bulma's blue eyes turned to ice, widening at his admission. "You…you _saw_ him? Like…in person? Why would you do that?"

He nodded, running his eyes over to the window, the sunlight waving goodbye to him as a milky blue invaded the sky. "He said he had a proposition for me. He asked me to work for him and I refused. So he increased the price of my debt."

He could feel Bulma go completely stiff in his arms and he tightened his hold on her. "By how much?"

"Double."

"Double!?" She leaned further away to see him clearly, her eyes darting around his face, littered with questions and concerns. "Vegeta, that's a _lot_ of money!"

He sighed, wishing he could go back to about five minutes ago when she was still beaming about her news. "I _know_ , Bulma, but I'm going to take care of it."

"And you don't need my help?" He could see the sincere concern etched in her fingers and he looked away guiltily, unable to chew on his response. He never thought the change would happen, but for her he found himself considering her feelings with each reply. And telling her flatly that he didn't want her to be concerned would make her feel like he didn't care, which was far from the case. But Bulma deserved to wear that look that made her so ethereal only moments prior, and even though she was still beautiful, her saddened eyebrows and worried stares were unbecoming of her.

"Bulma," he said patiently, "I told you I will take care of it."

Her features relaxed slowly, and he could tell that she was telling herself something to breathe easier. She closed her eyes and opened them gently, the sea of her irises a lot calmer. "Okay," she said quietly, "But please don't get yourself in too deep, Vegeta. Remember you have options."

He nodded, although his mind was made up. Every door would have to be forcibly closed in his face for him to ask her for such a price, and he was convinced it would never have to come to that. Besides, even during the duration of their conversation, Vegeta realized his 'other option' existed in only one person.

Nappa.

If anyone could understand the full direness of this situation, it was his uncle. And asking him for help didn't make his belly sink with guilt like it did when he thought of asking Bulma. All he wanted to do was keep her in a veil of bliss and make sure that her skin always glowed with her own happiness. He didn't want to drown her with his storm of issues.

Her hand reached out and touched his cheek, setting his flesh on fire. Each touch of her fingertips spoke to him in a hue of colors, making his vision come alive in clarity. She smiled at him, his own lips responding before his brain could register, and he suddenly found himself unable to tear his eyes away from her.

"What do you want to do tonight? Maybe see a movie, or grab a bite to eat?"

Vegeta heard her, but his eyes settled on the soft plumps of her lips, painted subtly with her chap stick, matching her cheeks perfectly. Bulma was like a living painting, every part of her made up of a complexity of colors that made his head feel light. It was as if he had to study her, take a lesson on her anatomy just so he could understand her fully. Sometimes, when his fingers touched her, he tucked the memory of how she felt in the spaces of his teeth so he could taste it as he slept.

She called his name again and his eyes found hers, but they became clouded by his lust and other variables. His brain was dueling itself in his anxieties of her safety, and her curves that kept his fingers warm. His hand brushed her cheek and her mouth parted, and he saw the same desire flash over her eyes. She was sensitive in that way, he had come to learn, and sometimes all it took was a minimal touch to make her want to sink into his flesh.

He bent down and tasted her.

The galaxy itself existed on her tongue, and he swallowed up all of the stars that she fed him greedily. She kissed him with fever, as if she had been waiting to melt into him all day. Her hands explored his upper body until they found home around his neck, playing with the collar of his button up. Her body was an inferno underneath his fingers, and he decided with finality that she was wearing too many clothes.

She must have thought the same, because she grabbed at his buttons impatiently, pulling them open with renewed purpose. He wasn't planning on washing the floors of the loft with their bodies, but soon their clothes discarded in a frenzied pool around their feet, and they followed suit. Vegeta sucked on the tender flesh of her neck, eliciting notes of gratitude from her lips. Such soft, pleasurable noises, the kind that made his cock throb with desire. His lips wanted to pull everything from her, her worries for him, any insecurities she may have had, any part of her that left a bitter taste on her tongue. He wanted to fill her with something new, something worthwhile, birthing her spirit with baptismal grace. He could taste the parts of her that ached for him, and while he didn't understand it, she was here and she was his.

That fact alone made his mouth trail down to her breast, plagued with the sudden urge to taste more of her.

She groaned, pushing her body into his, her fingers skimming through his hair. He couldn't stop touching her, _wouldn't_ stop touching her, letting his hands find every fold and plane that existed on her body. It was as if he couldn't get enough, it was as if they weren't close enough.

They needed to be closer.

He leaned up and rested his forehead against hers, curling his lips around hers gently, their breaths filling the silence in the room. Bulma's body fit so perfectly in his mold, as if the ocean that had birthed her had him in mind. Her legs opened around him, a direct invitation, the heat from her core warming the head of his penis, the tip anticipatory with pre cum. His hands gripped the meat of her hips, massaging the skin until they left behind angry red marks. Bulma whimpered against his mouth, begging for his familiar fill. His hand found her instead, running a heavy finger over her clitoris.

She broke their kiss and gasped, and Vegeta took the opportunity to look down at her face. Her eyelids pressed tightly together, her lips parted and swollen, the pink undertones of her skin swimming to the top. It almost made his heart break at the sight, and a song instantly came into his head. He would have to remember the notes and play them later, so that he could always remember how she looked when he made her feel this way.

His fingers were slick enough and Bulma was tired of waiting, urging Vegeta to give them completion. He obliged, entering her swiftly, finding home in her most private of parts.

Their joined bodies moved slowly as if they had never intertwined, and Vegeta found himself pouring his troubles into her as he quickened his stoke. Bulma mewled underneath him, wrapping her arm around his neck, her lips pressed against his ear. How was it possible that one woman had this power over him? How just by a bat of her eyelash, by a laugh in passing, she managed to give him hope that he had long since forgotten? How had he gone so long in his life without gracing his tongue with her name, without knowing what _this_ felt like?

What would he do, if it was ever taken away?

The pleasure ran over him in relentless waves as he lifted her leg to wrap around his waist, giving him deeper access. Bulma sang in his ear, begging for him not to stop, begging for "harder!", begging for more.

More. That's all Vegeta found himself wanting from her. More, more, more. More days like this, more days like yesterday. Their banters were his morning coffee, her cries of pleasure his bedtime story. He hadn't even noticed when his schedule became revolved around hers, when his apartment became a home for two, but he wasn't afraid like he initially was. What scared him the most, he noticed, was the thought of Frieza taking it away. A snarl escaped his lips incased in a moan, and he dove into her repeatedly, claiming more than her body, more than her oncoming orgasm. He closed his eyes as his body went on auto pilot, her hips slapping into his as she chased the release he dangled over her so cruelly.

He needed to watch her cum.

He turned his head to her, meeting her glossy eyes that were on the verge of tears. She smiled naughtily, breathing his name over and over like it was a religious exercise. The way she said it made him crawl closer and closer to the edge, like she was claiming her own territory, and he found himself mimicking her. She kissed his shoulders and tried to stifle a moan, biting her lip down and turning it the shade of crimson, and he could tell by the way her walls clenched around him that she was swimming the tide of her orgasm. He thought he had more time, but watching her features tighten because of the pleasure he was giving her pushed him over the edge, and Vegeta knew in that moment that he didn't want this to be jeopardized by some seedy asshole with bad intentions. He loved her too much to see that happen.

And he needed to tell her that.

As Vegeta came, he echoed his words of affection, the words that he was too embarrassed to say fully, even though she knew he meant them. He said it to her ear, to her cheek, to her chin, her temple. She giggled in his ear as she spiraled down, waiting patiently for him to join her. And when he did, he collapsed at her side, pulling her body to his as he tried to fight the haze of after sex sleep.

Bulma wrapped her arm around him, drawing circles on his chest. "That's the first time you've _actually_ said it, you know." He couldn't see her face, but the tone of her voice suggested that she was more than pleased.

"Hmph," Vegeta closed his eyes, feeling the heavy weight of relaxation pull at his body, "Are you going to make some big deal of it?"

"No," she said through a smile, "But it was nice. It was more than nice. And you know I love you too." She got quiet, her fingers ceasing their circular motions. He opened his eyes and looked down at her, expecting to find her drifting off, but her eyes were lowered and focused, her lips curved down into a sad frown. "Vegeta," she said softly, unsteadily, "Is everything going to be all right?"

The question struck him like a freight train, making his eyes freeze in the blues of her hair. _God_ , he wanted to tell her yes. He wanted to arrogantly laugh and tell her not to worry about it, pretend to scoff at her for being dramatic.

But he couldn't.

The truth was, the second Vegeta released himself, the uncomfortable weight began to brew in his belly again. He had already lost it all before and managed to bounce back somehow, but that was primarily because of Bulma. If Frieza decided to create a part two, then he was sure the hinges of his sanity would finally snap. He would have to make a way of this, but the questions surrounding _how_ made it hard to see the light. So Vegeta mustered up as much honesty as he could and answered:

"I hope so."

oooOOOooo

_**A/N: In unrelated news, Smutfest is in like…four months? I'm pretty excited.** _

_**Thank you to everyone (as usual) for the lovely reviews and comments last chapter! Really makes me feel great!** _

_**So today I sat down and thought about it, and I realized that the ending to this story isn't tooo far off. It's not like a 'oh, 2 or 3 more chapters thing', but I think it may be less ten. :( And honestly, I'm gonna be so sad when I finish this story because I love it so much. I love it way more than I ever thought I would when I initially wrote it. I plan on going back after I finish it and redoing the first four chapters. At the time I was writing on my phone and it was hard to write a lot. I'll update when I do, if you guys want to go back and read it.** _

_**That's all for now, as always if you liked it, please leave a review! The best part(s) of my day is when I get that email notification that says "Review: Concerto".** _

_**Till next time, my friends!** _


	18. Episode 46

_**Concerto Eighteen** _

_**Episode 46** _

oooOOOooo

Thick clouds the color of gray dueled in the sky, letting out their ferocious battle cries by way of thunder. Bulma shifted in her driver's seat at the loud explosion as she drove down the express way, her fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter as she tried to focus through the heavy droplets of rain that poured down angrily against her car. The abrupt change in the weather was fitting, she decided, a complete contrast to the friendly sun that shied itself away from its people only moments prior.

The start of her morning had gone exceptionally well. She and Vegeta lazed about in his apartment after spending the night packing the last of his items, tucking away memories that she hoped to explore in a completely new setting. She was grateful that he had decided to purchase the lot after all, considering that it would still be a part of her life as well. Suddenly, the paint smudges in the floor of the lot seemed less of a nuisance and more of a decoration to welcome him home. His home, and perhaps hers as well. The declaration had barely left his lips, _"I wouldn't mind your company more often when I move in the lot, in case you get bored of your parents home,"_ before she had pounced on him, showering him with her grateful affection. In that moment, she ironically thought that nothing could possibly rain on her parade.

Until, that is, her phone rang unceremoniously, calling her back to the reality that seemed to go against everything she had tried to rebuild.

' _You have a collect call from the East City Metropolitan Jail. Do you wish to accept the charges?'_

Her teeth grinded into each other as she replayed that moment in her head. The confusion that painted her face. The hesitant 'yes' she spoke into the receiver. The familiar voice that begged for her help, making her leave her euphoria and slam into a ghost that she was beginning to forget loomed over her like a shadow. She had grabbed her keys immediately, halfway explaining to Vegeta what was going on and how she needed to get there quickly. She watched his jaw tense with a rebuttal stained on his tongue, but he swallowed it and told her to be careful. He handled it better than she would have given him credit for, better than even _she_ would have.

' _Bulma? Please…I…know I should be the last person to call you, but I really messed up this time.'_

The absolute nerve. She agreed whole heartedly that she should be the last person to be offering her assistance, and her initial reaction was to flat out decline any services. But she had definitely inherited her parents' softer spirits, the kind that made it impossible to turn away from a distress call. That didn't help the fact that the call left her mouth littered with cigarette ashes, however, nor did it satisfy the rumbling in the pit of her belly. All the care and concern she had did little to mask the anger that hit her body like the flashes of lightning that illuminated the sky before her.

' _Please…Can you please come and get me? I'll make it up to you, somehow. I promise.'_

The terror in the voice behind the words made her press a little harder on the accelerator, and she admitted that there was something refreshing about hearing him sound so human for once. It was the driving force behind why she had reluctantly agreed to make the hour long drive, even though she cursed him every second until his name was completely replaced with, ' _fuck you.'_ Deep down, despite her rush to get down the jail, Bulma was _pissed._ And most of it was at herself. For her own sake, for her own pride, she should have said no. That way, she could've avoided seeing the way Vegeta's eyes flashed angrily for a second, and all of it was accusatory of her. She watched him struggle to get it together, and when he looked at her just before she left, his face told her that he understood. Bulma wasn't the type of person to let anyone wallow in pity, especially if she could help. And while she would have understood if Vegeta had demanded that she stay, a small sense of relief echoed through her limbs at the fact that he had let her go without a fuss.

She was beginning to wonder if he was more of a class act then she initially thought , and definitely more than he liked to let on.

She got off on the exit closest to the jail, the rain announcing her arrival as it beat against the roof of her car in a relentless rhythm. It was growing impossible to see as her windshield turned the color of an opaque white, but between the hurried movements of her wiper blades and good luck, she managed to make it to the station, sitting eerily off in the middle of nowhere, its goth black exterior showing just how old the building truly was.

The rain beat down on her angrily, soaking through the fabric of her turtle neck dress. She was grateful that she had at least thought to put on knee high boot stockings to save her legs from getting as soaked as her bare arms. By the time she entered in the cool aired jail, Bulma was _freezing_.

She ran her fingers through her short hair, trying her best to run excess water from the ends, but all it did was sit in a lazy puddle on the floor around her feet. A sense of dread washed over her as she took in the surroundings of the jail. The walls were an obscure kind of white with foreboding etched into the tile. The correctional officers were just as bad, with about ten of them huddled together near the front desk but not saying anything. It was deafening quiet, making her choke on the realization that of _course_ he called her to get him. There was no way she could stand this herself, and she was merely 'visiting'.

The officers watched her as she approached and she realized that's _all_ they seemed to be doing. Two watching her, one watching the door, the others watching surveillance of what she assumed to be the pods belonging to the inmates. Everyone watching, watching, watching. It made her nervous, and especially for him.

She cleared her throat as she settled up to talk with the man at the front desk. Her words became nestled in the spaces between her teeth as his intimidating stare bore into her, and she wasn't sure if he was just overly serious or incredibly dangerous. Perhaps he was just sick; his skin did seem rather green. Either way, she didn't want to stick too long to find out.

"Hello, Officer….Piccolo?" She heard him gruff as she read his badge, reminding her of how Vegeta would remark when he was irritated. She swallowed roughly, determined not to wilt like a dying flower petal. "I got a call from an inmate here, his name is-"

"You're Bulma Briefs," Officer Piccolo set back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head, getting a good look at her, "Thought I recognized you from the papers. Pretty fascinating stuff you guys have going down at Capsule Corps, if you ask me."

Bulma forced a smile to stretch across her face, her bangs lightly sweeping her forehead as she pretended to bounce in appreciation. "Wow, thanks I really appreciate it. But actually, I'm here because-"

"Hey, Nail! Can you believe this is Bulma Briefs?"

"Well no shit," another guard rounded the desk, his eyes immediately locking with Bulma's. She wondered if the two were related, given by how much they looked alike, when she then realized that they _all_ kind of favored each other in a sense. This one, Nail, pressed his palms to the counter and slightly leaned over it, looking her up and down, "And here I always thought that the blue hair was a fraud. But it turns out that's the real deal, isn't it? Piccolo here loves reading that science newletter that comes around every few months. And you and your dad are always in it. Is his hair authentically purple, too?"

Bulma took a deep breath and tried to compose her growing irritation. They were seriously bombarding her with questions about her celebrity than trying to deal with her more pressing matter. She wished for a moment that Vegeta would've come with her; there was no way this conversation would have continued past the cordial pleasantries if his brooding stare was present. "Look, I really appreciate your praise, but I'm a little frantic to—"

"What's someone like _you_ doing over here?" Piccolo raised an eyebrow at her, confusion painting his face with the color of lime, "Nobody really comes here except in handcuffs. And I doubt you broke any laws."

"I'm _trying_ to get to that."

"Is it some press thing? Does my hair look fine?" Nail ran his fingers over his bald scalp and laughed ridiculously, making Piccolo snort and Bulma seethe.

"If you would stop interrupting me, then maybe I can tell you _why_ I'm here in the first place!" Her voice had taken flight, screeching in an otherwise silent void. The stares of the officers around came judgmentally down on her as irritation pooled over Piccolo and Nail's features.

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to lower your tone," Piccolo's voice had taken several octaves lower, his face contorting into a more serious expression that made Bulma's skin icy, "This is a police station, not a circus for your theatrics."

Bulma felt her tongue swell in the confines of her lips and she squeezed her eyes shut. Somewhere in the depths of her chest, she found the words that were wrapped tightly in censorship, and she forced them tightly through her lips like a dying wind. "I don't mean to yell, Officer Piccolo. I only want to bail out a friend and then I will leave your precious facility."

"Hmph, it's not _that_ great," Nail mumbled to himself before scribbling back on a clipboard. "The walls are chipping and the plumbing is weird…"

Piccolo sat up a bit straighter and opened a program on the computer, taking his eyes off of Bulma and seeming to be bothered with her presence. "And what's your _friend's_ name? Although judging from the crowd we usually get, I'm willing to bet which one it is."

"His name is Yamcha. Yamcha Wolfe."

"Of _course_ it is," Piccolo pressed his lips together and Bulma assumed he was patting himself on the back for being right. She rolled her eyes and shifted her weight on one hip, staring at some poster on the wall while Piccolo did whatever he needed to do.

After some time he slid a paper over to her. Her eyes immediately darted to the price of his bail and her jaw sank to her feet. She searched the answers to Piccolo's face in shock.

" _A $5,000_ _bail?!_ What the fuck did he do, steal a car?!"

"Ma'am, if I have to ask you to lower your tone one more time, poor little Yamcha will be doing laps for me for the next month until his court date. Now do you want to continue on?"

Bulma bit her teeth. This officer was really pulling the strings of her nerves. "Why," she began to spit out choppily, "Is his bail so _much_?"

"Well for starters ma'am, you're only required to pay 10% of his bail, so technically we only need $500 from you. And secondly, your friend here got pissy drunk and got into a pretty bad fight. And that was only after he was seen urinating on the side of a cop car," Piccolo clenched his jaw at the last part, making Bulma wonder if it was _his_ car that had gotten soiled, "Add all those things up plus a complaint ticket from the bar he was in, and you've gotten yourself a $5,000 fine. Any other questions?"

Bulma couldn't believe the words that she was hearing. _Yamcha?_ Mr. I-can't-eat-this-slice-of-pizza-because-fat-carbs-sugar _Yamcha_? If he hadn't called her in the first place, she would have never believed the words leaving Piccolo's mouth. The worst thing she thought the man was capable of was never returning a book from their college library, and even then she thought he may have felt bad about it. What in the hell could have transpired to make the otherwise good citizen stoop so _low_ like that-

…Oh.

A pain staking weight sank in Bulma's stomach. She felt the waves of guilt wash over her body until it spilled from her flesh, and she was sure Piccolo could read it over her face at that moment. It was _her_ , it was all her. While she hadn't forced Yamcha into his one night of crime, there was no denying to Bulma that she had tickled the scratch to his wounds. She took a deep breath and dug in her purse for her wallet. "You guys take credit, right?"

"Yes, but you'll have to round the back to see Dende to pay. He handles all of that stuff. Follow me."

Officer Piccolo led her down a hallway slathered in gray paint, making Bulma feel even worse. A part of her was incredibly angry with Yamcha for being such an irresponsible ass, and the other was completely saddened at the thought of seeing him fall so low. And she was most likely the catalyst. Lucky her.

She was dropped off in front of a small window in what seemed to be the back of the jail, and a short man (or at least what Bulma assumed to be an adult) smiled at her warmly. It was a complete contrast to the officers at the front of the station.

"How can I help you, miss?"

Bulma immediately slid her card and Yamcha's paperwork in the dip of the glass, just wanting to get the situation done and over with already. "I'm here to bail out this man."

Dende's face fell to a frown. "Actually, our debit reader is offline today. It's not due to be back up until tomorrow afternoon."

"Tomorrow afternoon?" Bulma was absolutely convinced that somewhere in the sky, the gods were laughing down at her torment. "I can't wait that long!"

"There's an ATM close by, in walking distance actually. But due to the rain, I'm not sure you'd want to. If you cross the street and head about three blocks down, past the old N'Ouija manor, there's a health store on the left. They have an ATM you can use."

Bulma's brain tossed out whatever she was originally thinking and absorbed the tidbit that Dende unknowingly gave. "N'Ouija manor?" She repeated the phrase slowly, letting it coat her tongue with marble. "As in, Vegeta N'Ouija, the musician?"

"The one and the same. It's sad, when you think about the history there," Dende frowned as if the tragedy affected him personally, "But it's great Vegeta's doing so well for himself. His mother would be proud, she was pretty active in the community and always talked about him."

"Yeah," Bulma nodded sullenly, although her mind was a thousand miles away, "It is pretty sad." A tightness formed in the back of her throat at the remembrance of what Vegeta had told her. Even though he was as transparent as he was going to be, Bulma knew that a part of him was withholding information for her own sake, and perhaps his own sanity as well. How ironic, that the woes of her ex-boyfriend would lead her directly to the dirtied history of her current boyfriend? Bulma nodded at Dende and gripped her purse tighter, knowing she would ignore his advice.

Not even a little rain would deter her gazing through the looking glass of the manor Vegeta used to call home.

oooOOOooo

The street that the N'Ouija manor occupied had a strange presence, almost like the sudden and still quiet before a round of thunder, and Bulma wrapped her arms tightly around herself as she drank it all in. It was a large estate cuddled under thick willow trees, the brown brick of the building sitting earthily against the forest green grass. The manor itself slept behind thick black iron that wrapped it away from any neighbors. The lawn seemed untouched as if time kept its dutiful fingers around the fountain and shrubbery so intricately scattered about. Bulma wondered if the personal touches were that of Mrs. N'Ouija, and if so, she felt for a moment as if she really knew her.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling for her to be in the midst of something so personal to Vegeta. She let her eyes wander over each and every inch of the estate, wondering where Vegeta might have played, or where he would sulk off to when his feelings were hurt. Even as an adult, Vegeta would pout and walk to another room if Bulma managed to wound him, and she would always find herself choking down a laugh as she went to make up with him. He'd give in and pretend as if the slight had never occurred, and Bulma would think of how big of a baby he could be in that regard. She couldn't help but wonder if Vegeta's mother found herself in those exact situations on this very site.

She leaned against the gate, the rain massaging her back lightly. It had let up since her walk, thankfully, but as she absorbed herself in to the quiet manor, she found she wouldn't have cared if the rain decided to come back at its full capacity.

"No the place isn't haunted, no Mrs. N'Ouija doesn't scream at the top of her lungs every full moon, and no you can't go inside to see if I'm right or not."

The feminine voice caught Bulma off guard, putting a scratch on the vinyl of her thoughts. She turned her head around to the house across the street, seeing a woman around her age staring at her from the porch. She had her hands cocked on her hips, watching Bulma with a combination of curiosity and irritation. Her short, midnight fire hair danced in the wind as it blew past, and Bulma noticed how beautiful she was to look at.

"That cover all of your questions?" She began to walk down the porch and head to the end of her driveway, not caring either about the rain. "You haven't been the first to be all curious about the infamous N'Ouijas and I know you won't be the last. But seriously, aren't you a little too _old_ to be believing in cult stories?"

Bulma scrunched her eyebrows together and pursed her lips, mimicking the stance of the woman across the street. "Excuse me, but I believe we're probably around the same age. And who says I'm believing anything of the sort?"

"What I meant was we usually get teenagers coming around here. They're usually loud and full of gossip and I'm sick of it," she crossed the street now, holding a hand to block out the thick raindrops from her eyes, "So if you're not here for some wild urban legend, why are you staring like you're searching for an answer to whatever question is on your face right now?"

Bulma's face softened and she looked away, trying to scramble a believable answer. What _had_ she come here for anyways? It wasn't as if anyone lived here, and no trace of Vegeta remained other than the name scratched into the front of the gate. "It's a beautiful home, I just wanted to look."

The woman snorted and Bulma could tell that she didn't believe her lie. But it was the only one she had at the moment, so she let the acidic words slither from her lips and fall to her feet. "Well, I don't really care _what_ reason you have for being here, as long as you don't plan on heckling any of us about something your buddies told you on the internet." She shook her head and extended her arm, "The name's Fasha."

Bulma slid her slippery palm against Fasha's and shook it lightly. "Bulma."

"Well, that's a name you don't hear everyday, unless it's anyone who knows you that is." Bulma wanted to correct her in that regard, but kept her lips still instead. "I suppose you at least know what happened here right?"

Bulma shook her head, the corners of her mouth dropping with the weight of that truth. "Only that they died, but I don't know how."

"Oh boy," Fashsa went to the gate and leaned on it just as Bulma had, resting her chin on the back of her palms, her wet hair clinging to both sides of her face. "Well I've lived across the street for almost twenty-nine years now. I pretty much grew up with Vegeta and Tarble -those were the sons of the estate. They were a nice family, and all of them _extremely_ talented. Especially that Vegeta, he definitely took after Yasai." A smile crept on Fasha's face as she turned to Bulma. "Now _Yasai_ was a real class act. She was like a second mom to me when my own was too caught up on work to give a damn. She would even give me piano lessons while she would teach Vegeta, although he was _far_ beyond my skills. In fact, we went to the same performing arts high school. We entered at the same time, but he graduated a year after we attended. _A year_!"

"Wow," Bulma said, her admiration for Vegeta growing in her chest, "That's pretty remarkable." Her Vegeta, ever the prodigy.

"You're telling me. He was so gifted that he was getting job offers left and right. Yasai was so proud of him. By the time we were sixteen, he could play every single instrument in the band and orchestra. I think that's the time he started writing his own stuff. When she realized that Vegeta had surpassed even _her_ expertise, which was something to say because Yasai could play _so_ beautifully, she invested in an antique shop with her sister. It was called _Yasubi's Fine Goods_ , but now they've changed it to Nappa's Fine Goods. New ownership, I suppose."

Bulma's eyes widened at that information. So the shop that Vegeta had been visiting the day she followed him around, belonged to his _mother_? Suddenly, Bulma found herself anxious for Fashsa to disclose more information about Vegeta and his family. "What about the dad? Mr. N'Ouija? Was he talented too?"

Fasha's face fell and the light in her eyes blew out like a candle, a scowl forming on her lips. "Yeah," she replied bitterly, "He was talented alright. A talented _asshole_." Bulma watched as some old film played in Fasha's head, patiently waiting for her to continue. Finally she did, but not before taking a deep breath to calm her apparent nerves. "Mr. N'Ouija used to play a bit himself when I was younger, but then he stopped all together. Soon, it was mainly Mrs. N'Ouija, Vegeta and sometimes Tarble, if he felt up to it, that were the real musicians of the family. I suppose Mr. N'Ouija started investing in… _other_ things.

"There were talks of him maybe having an affair, but most of us wrote that off as stupid because, _man,_ Mrs. N'Ouija sure was gorgeous. I used to wish that I could look like her when I got older, sometimes she used to even tell me that I had achieved her in that regard," Fashsa chuckled, looking down to her feet and pretending to kick something. "I had even heard that he had a gambling problem; always spending money to make more, completely caught up on the get rich quick lifestyle. But either way, he really wasn't around for a while. And when he was, it was usually in some sort of screaming match with Vegeta. He just seemed so hard on the guy, like he wanted him to stop being a musician or something and work for him. But Vegeta wasn't backing down easily. He told me about a week or so before _it_ happened that he had enough and was moving out and he was going to take Tarble with him. When I asked him about his mom, he looked at me icily and said she had made her weak choice, whatever that meant."

Bulma was instantly reminded of the argument in his office all those months ago, when he was screaming at her for not doing better. At the time, Bulma felt that Vegeta was speaking to a phantom behind her, screaming his irritation at _it_ rather than her. Now, standing here and listening to the weight of Fasha's words, Bulma saw that her hunch just might be true.

"It was like a dark cloud just sprang out of nowhere over them all. One moment they were happy, or as happy as they could _be_ , and the other, we're hearing rumors that Mr. N'Ouija got himself involved with something more dangerous than some _affair_. He began to act weird, and to be honest, I think they started selling a lot of their stuff. And I mean _a lot_. I became worried when I saw Vegeta one afternoon, though. He was screaming so loud I could hear him in my bathroom, telling his dad how he took the last good thing he had, but he'd never get his grandfather's lighter. Vegeta drove off furiously as his mother broke down in the lawn, begging for him to come back. It was the saddest thing; I remember going to bed just feeling so lousy for them." Fasha's expression saddened, her eyes appearing to blink back tears, even though they could have gotten lost in the rain. Her face left Bulma's, instead looking at the manor with renewed interest, like she was seeing something that Bulma could not.

"That's when it must have happened, when I was asleep. I remember waking up to sirens, and the police carrying out three stretchers, talking about how this is the most gruesome scene they had ever witnessed. I threw on some slippers and went down to see, but it was a madhouse. I guess some of the people that Mr. N'Ouija was involved with broke in and tortured them all, even sweet little Tarble." Her words began to crack, choking up in the back of her throat. She brought a hand to her mouth to cover it, trying to fight through her emotion. "I don't even want to say some of the ugly things I heard they did, especially to Mrs. N'Ouija, but none of them had an open casket at the funeral. Vegeta came back that night, and I could tell he was distraught about having left earlier, when it happened - - - and so _angry_ at that. No one could hold him back, not even the police. His uncle Nappa had to come and get him," Fasha's voice trailed off, like she was revisiting a memory that was too bitter and not at all sweet. "I haven't seen him since, except for when he makes the papers."

Bulma felt her heart beat sadly against her chest, reminding her that she was a human with too many emotions that ran deep. Her bones ached as she played a reenactment of what must have happened that night on this lawn. Vegeta lived everyday with _that_ pain? To know that the last memory of his family was one of anger and hurt? No wonder he could mimick the devil sometimes; Vegeta had lived through his own personal hell. She gasped as her eyes teared up, unable to stop looking at the haunting scene before her. The manor looked completely different to her then, as if its exterior had been doused in the cruel shade of red.

"Poor Vegeta," she whispered, earning an eyebrow from Fasha.

"You say that so personally," Fasha folded her arms, "Like you know the guy."

Bulma just turned and stared at her, knowing her face told the depths of how well she knew Vegeta. Fasha looked taken aback for a moment before gathering her composure. "Really," she sounded almost impressed, "The two of you?" Bulma nodded, unable to find the words that sat in her heavy throat. "Well, Vegeta has definitely always wanted the finer things in life," Fasha's voice dripped with sarcasm, making Bulma feel territorial. She was about to question her remark when Fasha laughed. " _Relax_ , geeze your face is expressional. I had a thing for him for a while, but it was never returned. Who would've thought he'd have a thing for _blue_ hair?"

Bulma chuckled, her scalp tingling with the ghosts of Vegeta's fingers. Sometimes, when they lay in the quiet blanket of night, Vegeta would affectionately tell her how much he enjoyed her hair and it's 'odd coloring.' He would spend a long stretch of time combing through it with his fingers, watching the wisps of hair fall delicately back to Bulma's scalp before he would wash, rinse and repeat the motion. Bulma would always fall asleep under his admirable touch. "Yeah," she said finally, "Who would've thought?"

Fasha scoffed and turned away, flashing Bulma what she assumed was a white flag of a smile. "Listen, I'm sure that Vegeta still hasn't really healed from this. And I don't very much blame him. He lost everything that was important to him in the blink of an eye, and if the rumors are true, then I don't imagine he'll have much luck looking for any sort of justice. The guys that Mr. N'Ouija got himself involved with are the worst kind of people. Hell, they had no problem murdering a teenager and a sweet woman, and doing god knows what to them until they took their last breaths! Not saying Mr. N'Ouija deserved that terrible crime, but _he's_ the one who got himself involved with that mess," Fasha waved her own words off as if she'd said too much, although Bulma believed that the woman was an open book for her life and everyone's around her. "All I'm trying to say to you is, take care of Vegeta, will you? I don't have to talk to him to know how he's doing, I can hear it in the way he plays. It's almost like he's calling out to her by way of his orchestra."

"Of course I will," Bulma responded immediately, no time to let Fasha's words digest. The woman seemed satisfied with the answer, taking one long look at the house before back to Bulma, her dark eyes filled with a sadness that wasn't there when she first came across the street. She said her goodbyes and walked back to her own house, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her shorts and making no effort to turn around. Bulma wondered if she had come by just to tell her that, or if she had been holding inside of her chest for years, unable to deal with the threat to erupt any more. Either way, Bulma wasn't sure if she was happy to have some insight, guilty that it hadn't been Vegeta who'd told her, or saddened that such a thing had to happen to a man that she loved so much.

She turned around and gripped the top of the gate, letting her fingers play with the cool wetness of the iron. "I'm sorry, for you all," she whispered, pressing her forehead to the back of her hand. A cool wind that carried rain breezed past her, giving her the same warm comfort that she felt the day Vegeta had taken her to the cemetery. She propped her head up, expecting to see some beautiful woman smiling at her through the window, her face so familiar yet so foreign to Bulma. Instead she was met with silent glass that needed to be properly dusted, and a sudden pang in her belly that told her she needed to go to the ATM.

oooOOOooo

Watching Officer Dende take her money and sign off on Yamcha's release papers finally made the breath that had gotten lost in Bulma's chest come out. He turned out of his pod and led her to a waiting room where they would release Yamcha to. The ugly, yellow plastic chair that she had to sit in made her thighs itch with their discomfort, but nothing was more awkward than Yamcha when he finally stepped through the thick blue door.

She remained in her seat as she took in his disheveled appearance. He _definitely_ looked like he had a rough night, if the dark bags under his eyes and unkempt hair had anything to say about it. His eyes were low and pink, full of words that she knew he wanted to say. That he had _better_ say. But he couldn't even look at her. He avoided her stare like it was the void of space, choosing instead to sit across from her with his head down and his hands clasped.

"Hey, B," he croaked out, staring at the tiles of the floor.

"Yamcha," the attitude behind the clipped tone of his name slapped him across the face, and Bulma hoped that he understood just how angry she _was_.

He dwindled his thumbs around each other, drenched in silence, only the loud ticks of the clock on the wall keeping them company. Bulma could wait for his explanation, she told himself, and they weren't leaving until he'd offer her one.

After what seemed like a long pause, Yamcha took a deep breath, one that started off confidently before shaking at the end, his body vibrating as he tried to choke back a sob. Bulma's own breathing hitched, unprepared to see him break down like this.

"I messed up, B," he whispered, and she had to struggle to hear it, "I really fucked it all up this time."

"Yamcha," she replied, this time softer and kinder, "What happened? What did you _do?_ "

He looked up at her then, the reflection in his eyes shadowed by shame and regret. Bulma took in a startled breath as she observed his face. Yamcha had always had a large scar on his cheek, a deep branded X that became synonymous with his aesthetic, but now she tried to swallow in a _new_ scar, one that stretched from the top of his eye, slanting diagonally downwards until it touched his jaw. It was an angry sort of red that made her own skin burn with pity. "What happened to you!?"

" _I_ happened to me," he choked out, wiping his eye with the back of his hand and grimacing. "I….I really did it _this_ time. Three cheers for Yamcha, the king of fucking his life up more than anyone else."

"That's not true," she retorted, her own voice small. She wasn't sure why she should care as much as she did, but hearing Yamcha talk so badly about himself crushed her own spirit. Sure, they just _didn't_ work as lovers, and during that time, Yamcha had forgotten how to be a friend to her. But they _were_ friends at some point, and Bulma never rested easily with her friends tearing themselves to shreds like hungry wolves.

"Is it not?" His eyes met her this time, and rather than an accusation being tossed at her by them, she saw instead that something else lay beneath them.

Self reflection.

"Let's not kid here like _I'm_ not the reason you're nestled up with Vegeta of all people. And it hurts, Bulma, it hurts a fucking lot." His eyes narrowed with a sort of sentiment that Bulma wished he would have displayed in their relationship, but nothing he could say would ever make her leave the haven that was Vegeta. "Every time I think about it, I get so _angry_. First it was at you, then at him, but now I find it's more at myself." He swallowed roughly, locking his eyes squarely into hers. "I wasn't very good to you, Bulma, and I see that now. You're perfect, _absolutely_ perfect, and I was a fool to think I could change what didn't need changing."

Bulma swallowed his words down with a bit of shock and gratitude, unable to cope at the moment with what those words meant to her. In one sense, she had been _waiting_ for him to say them to her, _waiting_ for him to grow up and take accountability for the end of their relationship. Yamcha certainly wasn't alone in their wicked dance, but she was tired of him placing the boulder of guilt solely on her shoulders. "Is that why you've gotten arrested Yamcha? Because of our history?"

"Our _history_ ," he repeated, scoffing at the selected words, "Don't….don't do that, B. Don't discredit all of those years together like it was an after-thought."

"Then what would you have me call it, Yamcha?"

"Our relationship. We were in love at one point Bulma. Before I got too focused on what I _wanted_ that relationship to be versus what it actually was. And then on top of losing the love of my _fucking_ life, I lost the orchestra. The one thing I was good at, the one thing I could proudly excel at, and I let it go because of a tantrum, just like Tien said." He chuckled to himself and looked away, the amusement sweating from his face and a more stern look in its wake. "I was angry and hurt and lost. And I started drinking. At first it would be with Goku and Krillin after they would get out of rehearsal, a bar here, a restaurant there. But then they started telling me I was over doing it and they had to get home, after all, Goku's got a family and Krillin is dating 18 for real now. And Puar doesn't even drink _at all_ , so I found myself drinking alone. And that wasn't fun, so I started drinking whenever, wherever, anything to make me forget about the shit show that I call my life now. But last night…someone offered me some pill at the bar I was at. Said it would make me stop pouting around over my umpteenth beer. It made me stop pouting alright, it made me _angrier_."

"Yamcha!" Bulma covered her mouth, her eyes searching his face wildly, "You took _drugs_? From a _stranger_?"

"I _get_ it, Bulma. It was a stupid thing to do. After that I really don't remember much, except I got into a nasty fight and the asshole got me with a broken beer bottle. I was taking a pee when this officer cuffed me, yelling at me the whole time at how he'll never get the stench of scum from his car."

Bulma decided, even though she had a premature opinion, that this was _absolutely_ Officer Piccolo.

"I just…I don't want this to be my _life_ , Bulma!" He looked back to her, his eyes brimming with tears. "I don't want to be the guy who can't get over his girlfriend. I don't want to be the jackass who can't help but think if he should have proposed already to get her to stay!"

"Marriage wouldn't have solved anything, Yamcha," Bulma crossed her legs and looked at him the way a mother does a child, "If anything, it would have prolonged the inevitable."

"But…" Yamcha's voice choked and he diluted his words to a whisper, "But didn't you _love_ me enough to say yes, Bulma?"

Bulma swallowed, unable to look away from him. She knew she had all but walked right into that question, even if her feet were pulling the emergency plug. She didn't know what to say to him, but his face begged her for some sort of resolution to his guilt. She didn't want to be that for him, not anymore. If he wanted to have this conversation with her, then they both deserved her utter and complete honesty.

"At some point, I loved you like the wind Yamcha. But that's the problem, you were _always_ like the wind, just breezing through me until I was nothing more than scattered leaves. We weren't _those_ people to each other outside of sex and friendship. You're kidding yourself if you think otherwise."

"That wasn't true for me, Bulma! I _loved_ you, I still do!"

"But did I fulfill you? Did I wake your sleeping bones with my smile, or make your skin breathe in places you had long thought to be suffocated? Did you ever get full off of our conversation, were you rebirthed after we kissed? You loved me Yamcha, but were you _in_ love with me?"

This question seemed to startle him, seating him heavily to the back of his chair with restraint. His eyes looked around her face, and he didn't need to say that she was right. The sadness of his pupils said more than enough.

"But…I love you, Bulma."

"Sometimes that's not enough, Yamcha."

A sudden fire erupted his eyes, even though he tried to blink it away. "Is it enough with Vegeta?"

Bulma was ready for this, mentally putting on her gloves for this toe to toe round with Yamcha. "What Vegeta and I have is different, Yamcha. A completely different level. I don't know if you feel comfortable hearing about that part of my life."

He slowly nodded after several tense seconds as if he understood. His face broke once more and he ran his hand through his hair, a question sitting on his tongue. "Are you….are you _happy_ , B? Can you at least answer me that?"

Bulma took a deep breath, feeling her own tense muscles relaxing with the expansion of her chest. She looked into the eyes of the man that she had pretty much grown into adult hood with, whom she had spent her entire college career and most of her twenties with. She remembered the silly things they would say to each other, when they would press their thumbs together and promise to keep each other's secrets like they were children. When Yamcha would stare at her under the soft glow of the lamp in their bedroom and tell her how beautiful she was and how much he loved her. When he would rub her back after a bad thunderstorm and sing her favorite songs off key to make her smile. She missed that, she undoubtedly missed the friendship that blossomed between them, it even made her stomach ache with the thought that those days were lost upon them. But nothing - _nothing_ \- they shared could amount to the raw love and emotion she felt with Vegeta. It was like comparing the warmth of a sun to a lightbulb, and she had accepted that both truths were _okay_. "Yes, Yamcha. I'm probably the happiest I've ever been."

That was a blow to him, she could tell, but it was the cold truth. And Yamcha didn't need to be coddled anymore, not if he was as fed up with himself as his words let on. He gathered his face and smiled feebly, although she could tell there was a lot more he wanted to say. Instead he remarked, "Good. At least in that aspect, I'm happy for you Bulma. Maybe we don't have to hate each other, do you think?"

"Hate is a strong word, Yamcha. It would do me no good to associate it with you."

This seemed to lift his spirits a bit and he stood up, stretching his tired muscles. "I've never said it to you, but I'm sorry Bulma. I'm sorry for everything I've done to you, and I'm sorry I wasn't a good friend and a lousy partner. I'm sorry I didn't support your dreams, or tell you I think you're a _great_ artist, and how I was afraid of being second to you in that field," He walked over to her and extended his hand, begging for her to take it with expression on his face. "I want to be a better friend to you, it would destroy me if you were completely gone from my life. Will you give me the chance to do so?"

Bulma sighed, standing up in front of him. She threw herself into a hug with him, startling his stiff stature. After a moment, he returned the gesture, wrapping his arms around her back. He sniffled in her ear and Bulma laughed in response. "Thanks, B. Seriously, thank you for coming to get me and giving me another shot at our friendship. You're the best and Vegeta doesn't deserve you."

"Well for starters, you can know that talking badly about my boyfriend is strictly off limits. He absolutely deserves me."

"Ouch, _boyfriend_ , that's going to take some getting used to."

"I'm sure you'll manage."

He pulled away from the hug, running his fingers down her head. "I won't blow it this time, B. If I do, you can ask your dad to turn me into a cyborg or something. Make me your own personal slave."

She threw her head back and laughed, relishing in the relief of not having to carry around this guilt any more. "You'd better not blow it, because I rather like that idea."

oooOOOooo

At night, the city moved differently. It was as if it was caught in a haze of after image photos, with everyone moving towards different intentions than when the sun was blessing them. The older Bulma had gotten, the more she appreciated it, the silence of the night that only the moon could birth, the feeling that anything was possible. It had grown to be her favorite time of the day.

And on a day like today, where it seemed like her emotions took off in a series of tornadoes, she allowed herself to bathe in the milky peace the midnight sky brought. After dropping Yamcha off at his apartment, the sun had completely gone down, making Bulma finally felt like she could shed her skin of the torment of the lit hours.

Her mother had called her during the drive, requesting that Bulma bring "that handsome boyfriend yours" to dinner. It made Bulma giggle that her mother had met Vegeta only once and instantly became smitten, fawning over him like a hormonal teenager, and making her stop asking about Yamcha. It took a small bit of effort on her part to entice Vegeta into going, especially after she discovered that he was nervous, claiming to have never met anyone's parents for a reason before. Bulma called it cute and Vegeta scowled and that was that. He even managed to find a casual but flattering outfit to impress her parents in (although he would never admit to it), and Bulma had to pretend it was no big deal when he made a detour to the store on the way to grab a desert. Yes, the nighttime seemed to turn things around for Bulma, indeed.

"Oh, my, look how handsome you are, Vegeta!" Her mother cupped her hands under her chin as she opened the door and let them in, her makeup as delicate and sunny as her mood, "This shirt fits you so nicely! I never realized that you work out! My, my Bulma, you've certainly hit the jackpot here!"

Bulma laughed nervously, feeling more embarrassed for Vegeta than herself. She knew that her mother doused herself in sugary flirtation, but not everyone was accustomed to her abrasive compliments. Even Yamcha had referenced the movie _The Graduate_ after their initial meeting.

Vegeta straightened at her side, extending the cake towards her with a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. Bulma wondered if he was would be as flabbergasted as he was the first time, and she waited for the moment to tug on Vegeta's sleeve as an excuse to leave the room.

It never came.

"I brought this for you," he said directly, setting it in her hands, "I noticed that your dress had strawberries on it when we met, so I figured you must like them."

Mrs. Briefs opened her small slits for eyes the widest Bulma had ever seen them, her fire red lips parting in an appreciative smile. "Oh my, Vegeta! What a thoughtful thing for you to do! I love strawberry shortcake, it will go so perfectly with the duck I've made! What a handsome, thoughtful young man you are! If I were younger I would just eat you _up_."

Bulma watched as Vegeta's cheeks turned into tomatoes and she had to swallow down her laughter. Clearly, he was a victim to her theatrics too. He cleared his throat and merely said, "Thank you for the compliment, Mrs. Briefs."

"Oh, please honey, call me Mom!" She turned toward the kitchen, beaming proudly at the cake in her hands. "Yes, I would like it very much if you called me Mom!"

Vegeta waited for her to disappear under the curve of the entry way before turning to Bulma, his face painted in confusion. "I don't think I'll be calling your mother 'Mom' anytime soon."

Bulma chuckled, wrapping her arm under his and resting her cheek against it. "I never thought you would, Vegeta."

Her home had always been a warm euphoria of safety for Bulma, but having Vegeta with her gave it an entirely new sense of appeal. She tried not to sink into absolute bliss as she watched he and Dr. Briefs go into an in depth conversation of the sciences. Vegeta was leaning in closely to him, his eyebrows interested in whatever her father was engaging in. Soon, she heard the conversation switch to music, and she could have cried as she listened to the light that accompanied Vegeta's words about his craft.

It almost, if just for a second, made her forget about the visit to the manor earlier.

The sudden thought crashed down on her body, stealing the smile from her face. Her eyes struck on Vegeta, the conversation he was in drowning out in the flurry of her own thoughts. The time around her felt as if slowed down until she was merely a spectator of her own life, watching the man in front of her walk so freely about his days even though the anchor of truth weighed down his ankles.

And _how_? She couldn't help but continuously ask herself this question, even over the laughter of her father at something crass Vegeta said. How does he do it? How did he find time to conduct music, to write the most _beautiful_ pieces she had ever listened to? How did he juggle the stresses of dealing with Frieza, the pain of the last time he saw his family, and still finding the time to _love her_? How could he even stomach it? Bulma waddled in the water of pity while dipping her toe in the lake of admiration. Vegeta had such strength that she had never thought one could possess, to move forward, to keep going, to rebuild when it would have been understandable to destroy. It left her in awe, but it left her aching. Aching because she wanted to soothe the burn of his past. Aching because no matter how much she tried, she could never right those wrongs for him. And aching because even though she would understand, he never let his own pain get in the way of his growth with her.

And she had to question for a moment if she could ever be so fearless, so resilient.

Fasha's words made her realize what kind of relationship Vegeta had with his mother. Even through his own lips he admitted that she was the music behind his lyrics. And Vegeta had told her on numerous occasions that she reminded him of his mother. Did she deserve the title, Bulma wondered? Fasha had talked of Yasai as if she was the birther of all nations, the goddess of life and love. She had been pretty special to Vegeta, and Bulma felt incredibly saddened that she would never meet her. Or Tarble. Vegeta spoke of him rarely, but Bulma knew that being an older brother was a job that Vegeta took seriously and enjoyed. And it sounded like Tarble made both of those easy.

"Bulma, honey, are you all right?" Bulma was shaken out of her inner monologues and focused on her father. He was watching her acutely, Vegeta's expression similar to his.

"I'm fine, Dad," she cleared her throat, avoiding the burning curiosity of Vegeta's eyes, "Why do you ask?"

"You've just been staring this way, honey. And you've been ignoring your mother's calls for you."

Bulma suddenly felt embarrassed, feeling her body heat up at her mistake. She turned around to find her mother cradling a phone in her hand, a worried look on her face.

"I'm so sorry, Mom," Bulma stood up and smoothed out her dress, walking towards her mother, "I just zoned out for a second there."

"Oh, I can understand that darling, you had your mother thinking you were going to pass out or something! I was only telling you that you have a phone call. Some nice sounding lady from a gallery."

Bulma's eyes lit up and she threw a smile towards Vegeta, taking the phone immediately. She walked over to the window, feeling three sets of eyes burning into her back. "Hello, this is Bulma Briefs!"

"Hello my dear, this is Mrs. Baba from Galleria 53," the old woman's voice croaked in the phone, "I believe you remember our meeting, yes?"

"Of course I do! I could never forget something so amazing!"

"Wonderful, dear! I'm glad I don't have to reintroduce myself, you'd be surprised at how often I have to do that. Listen, I'm sorry about calling you so late in the day, but I was sitting here looking over the copies of your art you left me with, and I have to admit I am even more blown away than I was when you first showed them to me!"

"Oh wow, thank you so much!" Mrs. Baba had shown Bulma some of her own artwork, and Bulma was mesmerized. Hearing such a compliment from a talented artist as Mrs. Baba made her stomach soar in butterflies.

"It's the absolute truth! I just can't believe that you're self-taught to boot! I've been in this business a long time, Miss Briefs, and I must say to you that it's a rarity I come across a talent as natural as yours! It's brilliant! But I'm not phoning you to simply praise you for your work. I actually called to ask if you would take over for the gallery opening and host it. I would like to make you our honorary guest, if you don't mind."

Bulma almost dropped the phone from her hand and she found herself leaning against the wall for support. She made a gasping breath that startled Vegeta, and he was at her side almost immediately, trying to make sure she was alright. She looked up at him and tried to reflect her joy, but came up short.

"Would I mind? Of course not, I'd love that! This has been a dream of mine since as far back as I can remember!"

"Perfect, dear!" Mrs. Baba laughed into the receiver, "I'm glad to hear it! I'll be in touch with you sometime this week to discuss all of the details. You'll do so well, Miss Briefs, I'm sure of it. Just like I'm sure that you'll make quite the profit and reputation from your paintings."

"Really? You think so?"

"I've already had admirers come and ask to buy them off the spot! Your piece involving the lady and the mirror is one of your more popular ones; people seem to really love that. I've been using the walk ins for your work as advertisement for the gallery night - _your_ gallery night. I hope that's all right."

"Of course it is!" Bulma couldn't help her voice from rising to the highest octaves of her range, making Vegeta touch her elbow and look at quizzically. "Thank you so much for this, Mrs. Baba. It's such an honor."

"Thank your talent, dearie, they're the real powers at play here. You have a bright future as an artist Miss Briefs. Enjoy your evening and I will talk with you soon."

"You as well!" Bulma ended the call and found herself staring at the phone in her hand. She shook her head in disbelief; truly this wasn't happening to _her_ was it?

"Bulma," Vegeta's concerned and gruff voice broke through her thoughts, his onyx eyes studying her face, "What is it?"

Bulma remembered all of the times she doubted herself as an artist, feeling like she failed to fly before she even extended her wings. The times that she'd thrown a tantrum and discarded her paintings, only to regret it merely minutes later. The nights she'd sat up in her loft, wondering if it was worth it, if Yamcha was right, if she was kidding herself.

And then she remembered when Vegeta wouldn't let her give that part of her up, how he breathed fire back into her sleeping bones, into her wilted fingers. How he encouraged her, motivated her, made her feel like she was the star of her show instead of the audience. She looked across his face, the skin that had been littered with scars of tragedy, of love for her, of love for his family. The same lips that praised her and condemned Frieza. The same eyes that cried for one loss and loved with another. She wouldn't be here if it weren't for him, she wouldn't have gotten this phone call if it weren't for him.

So with the truth stained on her tongue, she said:

"It's you. Once again, it's you."

oooOOOooo

_A/N:_

_The title of this chapter refers to Episode 46 of Dragon Ball, entitled Bulma's Bad Day_

_This chapter is a little overdue, I hope the length makes up for it!_

_Thank you everyone for being patient with me! I usually like to be a frequent updater, but with some life getting in the way with my depression/anxiety (those of you who are on Tumblr with me know about this) it made it hard to write anything. Good news is it's lifting a bit, which makes me have more clarity than anything._

_I hope this chapter was good for you guys, I felt a little rusty since it's been a month since I've written this._

_Please R &R! I get a little worried if I'm still doing a good job from time to time, so the reviewers really help me out with your kindness._

_Till next update, guys!_


	19. Memories

_**Concerto Nineteen: Memories** _

_A/N_

_Whew! It's been awhile hasn't it? Summer has been pretty busy for me. I hope you guys enjoy this latest installment! Parts in this chapter that are italicized indicate a flashback. Rest of A/N follows this chapter_

oooOOOooo

_The wooden oak that was the wall of the N'Ouija estate's basement swallowed any source of outside sound, giving Vegeta permission to play his piano as loud as he would like. It made him feel as if he was closed off from the rest of the world, that nothing else mattered in his current reality except for the ivory keys and their wails, giving him peace in an otherwise chaotic world. His mother had purposely refurbished the basement to his liking, creating a space that not even she would enter so that he could create with no boundaries, no limitations. The lush olive green accents of the furniture and soft lull of the faux waterfall against the wall made him feel like he was transported to some sort of sophisticated jungle, and every time his fingers ghosted over the keys, he mentally thanked her for giving him such solitude. Because the older Vegeta got, the more he realized that it was next to near impossible to focus on creating beautiful music when such ugly words were being thrown out of his parent's mouths almost daily._

_His mother's loud cries were silenced immediately as he shut the door to the basement, cutting off her last words with a slam, and he was greeted by the sounds of silence. In a way, it was as if he was shutting the door to the rest of the world and its occupants, and he had a forethought to march back upstairs and grab his mother's hand and take her with him, make her see the beauty in the quiet. Down here, there were no arguments. No fathers who drank their apologies into the dirt, no men who cared more about duty than family. In this haven of a space, the only thing that mattered was the music. In Vegeta's world, he was beginning to realize that it was the only thing that mattered._

_She wouldn't listen to him anyway. She never did. His mother was a genius, he would never deny that, but her foolish decisions to chase behind his ghost of a father left a bitter taste in his mouth that bothered him while he slept. And the powerlessness that accompanied him whenever his words of reason failed the situation made him want to stop trying altogether. 'I love your father, Vegeta,' her excuse would be, and Vegeta grew tired of hearing it, playing like a loop-de-loop of a record that wouldn't stop spinning. Love. The word was the most familiar and foreign thing to him. At this point, it might as well have been laced with acid. Vegeta thought he loved a girl three years ago, back when he first started the East City Academy of Performing Arts, but he quickly realized he was just curious as to what existed in the middle of her legs. And even then, he remembered being unimpressed, feeling as if he would have enjoyed penetrating his thoughts to paper, his fingers to strings. And that was when he threw away the idea of love, in the human form anyways. Vegeta would do anything for his music, for his craft. If he could manifest it into a physical form, he would nurture it the way a mother does her babe, and tenderly watch over it until his dying breaths. That was love as far as he knew, and despite whatever nonsense his mother tried to tell him, it was by his own standards that made him know that his father did not love her in return. He didn't love any of them - couldn't love any of them. If his father wouldn't even sacrifice his own pride for their happiness, how was love even a description for how he felt about them?_

_The bitter thought collided against the walls inside of Vegeta's head, and he plopped down angrily, rushing his fingers to the deep, velvety keys of his piano, in no sudden mood to hear chirping, fairy sounds. He huffed and experimented with different notes until they began to string together successfully, providing a soundtrack for his blackened emotions. Even if he couldn't speak how he felt aloud, he could always count on his best friend, his beautiful B_ _ӧsendorfer, to replicate a diary and replace his words. Soon he began to feel the familiar tug of his conscious slip through his fingers like sand, until the notes absorbed into the fine spaces of his skin._

_He didn't even notice the click of the unlocking of the door, or the shadow that stood behind his back. Only the void behind the spaces of his eyelids kept his sanity company, and he practically jumped from his skin as fingers brushed across his_ _shoulder_ _._

" _Vegeta? Can I keep you company down here?"_

_Vegeta turned around with a scowl etched on his lips, irritated that he was forcibly pulled away from serenading his fiery mood. Tarble stood in front of him sheepishly, his childish eyes full of emotion that spoke the words that Vegeta knew he wanted to say. He was in his night clothes and clutching a doll at his chest. It was a strange looking thing that had been gifted to his brother as a baby; some weird alien plush that was the color of cement, with a round head and two black buttons for eyes that made Vegeta uncomfortable. What was worse was that Tarble had affectionately named it Gure, and while Vegeta wanted desperately to rip the thing from his arms, the ten year old clung to it like it was a member of the family. And Vegeta would feel too much of a bully to rob Tarble of the small speck of innocence the boy had left._

" _You should go to bed, Tarble," he folded his arms and looked at him sternly, feeling more of a father at the moment than a seventeen year old brother, "I'm trying to work on my music."_

" _I know, big brother," Tarble's eyes glossed towards the floor, and he clutched his doll tighter to his chest, "But Mother and Father are being loud again, and it doesn't sound like they'll stop. It's keeping me awake." Vegeta also knew that Tarble in all of his sensitivity didn't like hearing his protectors scream at each other, but the boy had been programmed to be too proud to admit it. But it didn't cover the welling of tears that swam in the corners of his eyes, though._

_Vegeta took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his flamed hair, running his eyes towards the waterfall. "Is there nowhere else you can go?"_

" _Nowhere I feel safe."_

" _Fine, but you'll make yourself useful if you choose to remain here. At the very least, you can grab the violin from the closet and practice your scales. You seemed rusty the last time you played."_

_A disappointed frown stole Tarble's face as he looked back towards his older brother, his lips pressed into a pout. "I don't like playing the violin, Vegeta. I don't think music is very fun like you do."_

_Vegeta rose his eyebrows at this. Tarble was gifted, extremely so, even more than Vegeta was at his age. The boy never liked to practice, and getting him to rehearse even a few chords was a chore, but he had chalked it up to him being lazy or distracted. He never thought that he didn't like it, and the admission made him slightly upset. "Oh? And what is it that you like to do, then?"_

_Tarble's eyes perked up then, a light emitting through his chocolate brown irises. "I like to write poetry, brother! Mother let me read a few of her books, and I began to write too, and I thought it was really cool!"_

_This was new, and Tarble suddenly had Vegeta's full attention. "Poetry? How come you've never mentioned it before?"_

_The light dissipated from his face and his eyes grew cloudy again, forecasting the heavy rain behind his next words. "Because," he said softly, "Father said it made me less of a man. He said a N'Ouija had too much honor than to worry about silly words and rhyming."_

_Vegeta's stomach sunk in anger as he absorbed the weight in Tarble's words. Less of a man? The same Vegeta Sr. who was more of a guest in the home than an occupant had the nerve to declare what a man's substance was? Vegeta was sure the waterfall in the basement was made up entirely of his mother's tears at his father's inconsideration, that the_ _bricks_ _that made the driveway_ _consisted of the man's hardened pride. It wasn't too surprising; since Vegeta Sr. had stepped away from the music scene, he scoffed at anything in regards to the arts, but Vegeta himself could handle such a slight. Tarble was still molding, still in the impressionable stage where he didn't understand why his family dynamic was so different than his friends at the prep academy. And although Vegeta wasn't exactly brother of the year, Tarble looked up to him and Vegeta took the role seriously. "Father," he replied finally, "Is a_ _dick. The only way you'll be less of a man is if you allow others to dictate your passions in life. I'll lose all respect for you if you do that._ _"_

_This made the boy smile, being personally amused at his brother's colorful language, and he let out a giggle. "So what steps have you taken to succeed in your poetry?"_

" _What do you mean," Tarble scratched his head._

" _I mean, do you keep journals? Or notebooks? Where do you write them at?"_

" _Oh!" Tarble placed a finger to his temple, a grin threatening to split his face in two, "I keep them all up here! I've never forgotten a single one!"_

_Impressive. Vegeta smirked proudly, knowing that if the boy said it to be true, then it was. His brother had always been a daydreamer, his head lost in the clouds and his feet planted on the ground. Vegeta had always wondered what kind of secrets he stored in that massive brain of his, and now he knew for what. And he was quite happy with what he had found._

" _At the very least, you should keep a book of them. Not for you, but for others. Someone may want to read what you've written one day, and then what will you tell them?"_

" _Do you think I can, big brother!? Do you think I'll be that good that someone will want to read my words!?" His tiny fists clenched at his side as his mouth dropped in glee, his eyes hopeful._

" _Hmph," Vegeta closed his eyes and folded his arms, hoping to block out the sun that replaced Tarble's face, "You are a N'Ouija, are you not?" He turned back towards his piano, allowing Tarble to sit on the couch behind him. "Stay if you'd like, but I require a quiet atmosphere. Use the time to create more poems in your head, and tomorrow morning we can head to the_ _book_ _store and get you some journals. I expect that you will write them down if you're going to be serious about it."_

" _Of course! Thank you, big brother, you're the best! I'm really glad I have you around here, you know."_

" _Hmph."_

_Vegeta didn't need to turn around to see the admiration that swam through Tarble's eyes as he burned a stare in his back. And Tarble certainly didn't need to see the affection that clouded Vegeta's face, either._

oooOOOooo

Vegeta  _hated_ shopping. There was no beating around the bush when it came to that. He despised the crowds, the stuffy atmosphere and the even stuffier people, and the terrible music that spilled through the speakers like toxic gas. His own methods to buying clothes were concise and strict: get in, buy the merchandise and get out. And most of the time, he was in his car and driving home before the sun even had the time to properly greet the day.

And yet here he was, smack dab in the middle of a Saturday, in the ritziest part of town on a busy street, watching Bulma skim through dozens of racks in a quaint boutique, shopping for a wedding dress for Goku and Chi Chi's upcoming nuptials. He didn't even want to  _go_  to the wedding, but he would be damned if he let Bulma fly solo to an event painted in the allure of romance, quite possibly becoming susceptible to a harem of drunken men with drunken intentions of a reception rendezvous. He knew the kind of stares a woman of her stature acquired, and there was no way he would allow it, even if he knew Bulma would wave their lustful advances off like pesky flies. So when she batted her eyelashes at him prettily and asked him to accompany her to find a new dress, he obliged.

"What do you think about this one?" She held up a lavender dress and stuck her head through the space between the hanger and the material, forming it to her body. Vegeta eyed it up and down, mentally picturing her wearing it. He shook his head immediately.

"The color doesn't do your hair justice. I think you could find a better dress."

"Hmm, maybe you're right, although I really like the lace in the sleeves," she removed it from her head and pouted, giving it a once over again. "You know, I'm really surprised at how good you are at this. I would assume most men would grunt and ask their girlfriend to hurry up."

She may have been surprised, but the truth was that Vegeta was used to this. His mother would do the same thing, playing dress up with high spirits before a date with his father, parading around in front of himself and Tarble in colorful clothes before asking them for their opinion. But he had been a child at the time, back when a simple, "You look great Mother!" was sufficient for every opinion. He knew Bulma would require a more complex answer, and she at least deserved to know the truth. She sighed, placing the dress back on the rack and biting her lip.

"Maybe we should just go. It's been forever since I've been to any reception, and most of the dresses I own don't exactly scream  _wedding_ , but we've already been at this for hours. Maybe I'm shooting blanks here and just being overly picky," she rolled her eyes towards the door, and Vegeta could read in her face that she didn't  _really_  want to go, but there were no lies to her words. He checked his watched and noticed that they had already been in here for  _three hours_ , and Bulma was no closer to finding a dress than she was when they first arrived. But still, he heard the excitement drip from her lips at having an excuse to buy another outfit. Bulma's family was rich, there was no denying that, and her wardrobe could fill an entire mall if she wanted to, but it still didn't stop her from wanting to expand. And besides, a new dress could also be a treat for  _him_  too, considering he had already seen most of her more formal wear. So with a begrudging sigh, he skimmed through the racks himself, looking through dresses in her size. When he turned into  _this_  guy, he didn't know.

The dresses were so elaborate and detailed that it made him nauseous, with enough embroidery to make a craft store squeal in gleeful theatrics. Bulma had insisted on the boutique because of it's reputation for finding the right dress for a wedding, but Vegeta was sure that most of this crap was for the bride herself. "We're already here," he muttered to her, "So we might as well find you something you're satisfied with. Otherwise this day is for nothing."

He felt her feathery lips grace his cheek, making his skin flushed at the mere contact. "Thank you Vegeta, you're the absolute best." His fingers froze at the phantom voice behind her words, reminding him of a little boy who had said that to him at one point in time. He glanced over at her and tried to swallow down the pain that the memory brought up, and was relieved to see that she was lost in browsing through the racks. He turned back to the task at hand, rejecting most of the dresses because of their color of their gaudy appearance, trying hard to stomp out his wandering thoughts with the heel of his Oxford.

Towards the end of the rack, almost neglected and picked over, was a lone, long sleeved, ivory dress. The collar was high, almost a turtle neck, with sheer sleeves and neckline. From the bust area and down, underneath the sheer layer, was a creamy white, almost satin material, that swam down in waves until it puddled out around the ankles. Vegeta rubbed his fingers over the lacy fabric that adorned the dress, and admired it for its Victorian-esque look. He removed it from the rack and spun it towards her, holding it up in front of her face.

"Wow!" She remarked breathlessly, taking the fabric in between her fingers, "This is gorgeous." Her sapphire eyes drank it in, moving it around her fingers delicately. Vegeta watched her with interest, feeling slightly proud that something he picked out had such an effect on her reaction. "I really love this, Vegeta," her fingers dropped from the dress and she pouted, "But I can't wear this one."

His satisfaction diminished into pebbles and he frowned at her, feeling defensive as if she had insulted him. "And why not? It's in your size, and your facial expression shows that you admire it."

"Yeah but, I can't wear white. Then I'll upstage the bride."

"Isn't that supposed to be a color for purity? They have a child! And they're already married!"

"Vegeta…" Bulma pressed her arms to her side and raised an eyebrow at him, "It would be completely rude. I would hate for someone to do that to me at my own wedding. Besides, this looks more like a bridal gown than anything. Chi Chi wouldn't like it, I don't think anyone would."

A taller woman made her way over to them, her hands clasped at her belly, her smile lifting off of her cheeks. "Do you like that dress, Miss?" Her meek voice sounded hopeful, her fingers running circles around each other as if she was grasping at straws.

Bulma's mouth fell open as she looked between Vegeta, the dress, and the saleswoman. Vegeta could taste the apprehension that spilled from her lips as she spoke. "Yes, it's a very beautiful dress, but I don't think it'll work for the event I have planned."

"Oh," the woman frowned, placing a delicate finger on her cheek, "That's too bad. This dress is actually from France. I brought it back myself after a visit, but no one has bought it yet, even at the sales price. Everyone claims it's too old fashioned for a bride to wear in this day and age."

"Really?" Bulma's eyebrow rose in disbelief, as if she herself was insulted, "I think it's a gorgeous dress. I'm sure any bride would look lovely in it."

"Would you like to try it on?"The saleswoman gestured for Vegeta to pass it to her, which he did, and she held it against Bulma's frame, "It seems like it would fit you perfectly. You certainly have the figure to do it justice."

Bulma looked torn between her answer, although Vegeta was more than sure that she wanted to. Before she could deny the opportunity, he cleared his throat, having no more patience for her to hold back her own wishes. "Just try it on, Bulma. I highly doubt Chi Chi would throw a tantrum because you wore a white dress."

"I still  _won't_  wear it to the wedding, Vegeta, but…." A sigh slipped from her lips and she took reluctantly took it in her fingers, folding it over her arm, "I guess it's not every day that I get to try on something from France directly. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to see what it looks like on." The saleswoman seemed more than satisfied with the answer and led Bulma away to the fitting rooms, giving Vegeta the time to get off of his feet as he sat in a plush chair in front of the changing area. He pulled out his cell phone, responding to a text message from Nappa. Vegeta had been corresponding with his uncle since he paid a visit to Frieza, and Nappa had been burying his head in the sand trying to find a solution to Vegeta's woes. The last message Vegeta sent was one of absolute desperation, a question that burned the tips of his fingers the moment he typed it on his phone.

_Should I just ask Bulma for the money? I really don't want her involved, Nappa._

And he didn't. Taking the money from Bulma was easy, and he was sure that she would offer it to him with a cheery grin on her face. It was just how she was, always offering her services to help out her loved ones in need, even if it meant bailing out scar faced idiots who didn't even deserve her speaking his name. But then what? How long would it be before Frieza found out just  _where_  Vegeta had gotten the money? Would he demand more? And what would that mean for her? He had already threatened her life, and Vegeta was sure that the drug lord's personal stamp on her flesh wasn't going away anytime soon, and he didn't want to provide any more ammunition to the loaded gun. Being with her was enough - _loving_  her was enough, and Vegeta would rather take the bullet himself than make her a target any more.

And furthermore, Bulma wasn't the reason he was in this situation. Hell, even  _he_ wasn't the reason for Frieza's sick ploys, but something stung in his chest at asking her for help. He'd rather drain every avenue of possibility dry before diving to that option, and he wasn't entirely convinced that all odds were against him yet. The message from Nappa confirmed his stubbornness on the matter anyways.

 _It's not about the money, Vegeta. It's never just about the money when it comes to Frieza. For what he asked of you, the money is just a hook to dangle you from. Just give me a little time to work out some things, I think I may have found a way to rid this problem for good_.

Vegeta read over the last few words again and again until it became permanently embedded in his brain. Surely Nappa didn't,  _did he_? His mind wandered over the scenarios of what remedy Nappa was referring to, and he hurriedly typed a response that conveyed his questions. Before he hit send, however, a clearing of the throat demanded he look up and ignore his phone.

And when his eyes landed on the sight of her, he was glad that he did.

There wasn't a word in his immediate vocabulary that could accurately describe how she looked. Ethereal, maybe? But still, it wasn't strong enough. The gentle fabric lay tenderly against her skin, molding perfectly to her arms, her waist, her hips, as if the dress was conceived with her in mind. She had tucked her shoulder length hair behind her ears, letting her slender jawline be exposed and compliment the lacy, sheer fabric that cradled her neck. The white material offset the ocean water of her hair, balancing it in a way that kidnapped Vegeta's breath.

"So," she spun in a circle, mimicking a ballerina, smoothing out the fabric that bunched around her belly, "What do you think? I know I won't be buying it, but how do I look?"

Vegeta wanted to say something, he truly did, but any words that could have been birthed in his throat died out the moment he saw her. How was it possible, he wondered, that anyone could be so beautiful? Not just her pretty face, or her curves that made him feel  _very_  much a man, but all over? In the places no one could see, in the way her eyes sparkled, or in the way she breathed life into something as simple as a dress?

And how was it possible, that she belonged to  _him_? That he was the one who got to run his fingers over someone so pristine, so angelic?

Her face twisted into worry as she circled in front of him again, and he knew that he was taking too long to answer. The phone in his hand suddenly felt very heavy, as if it was reminding him that he had more pressing matters to attend to other than heat that rolled from the flick of his hair to underneath the zipper of his pants. For a moment, he had forgotten why he was on the damned thing in the first place. He couldn't take his eyes away from her, even if his expression was as still as the chair that kept him from floating to the ceiling.

"Oh my, it looks just as exquisite as I thought it would!" The saleswoman cut him off, loosening the whip that tangled around his throat as he remembered how to breathe correctly. She walked around Bulma, getting a good look at her from every angle, nodding her head with intense approval. "You, my dear, are  _stunning_! I swear, it almost makes me happy that I haven't sold it yet!"

"You think so?" Bulma blushed, her eyes nervously darting towards Vegeta.

The saleswoman walked over to him, resting her hand on the back of his chair. Vegeta fought with strict determination to not reach behind him and toss her hand off. "Oh absolutely! And you, sir? Don't you agree that she is a  _vision_? Can't you imagine this beautiful creature walking down the aisle towards you in  _this_ dress?"

Bulma's face turned the shade of rose petals, and she nervously laughed as she strode towards them, making Vegeta feel like he was caught up in the rapture. "O-oh, I think you misunderstand, we're not shopping for  _our_  wedding, you see-"

"Well darling maybe not  _today_ , but someday soon, right?" She threw Vegeta an annoying smile, a suggestive hint forming in the pit of her eyes. "I see the way you two interact with each other. Would I be wrong to assume that wedding bells could be in the future for you?"

Vegeta suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Wedding? Marriage? Those were things he had  _never_  associated with himself, especially not before Bulma. And even in their relationship, although he knew that being apart from her was out of the question, the title of husband and wife never crossed his mind. Not because he didn't want to, or couldn't see it, but because he never assumed they were the labeling type. One day Bulma had referred to herself as his girlfriend, and he made no moves to stop her. Since their initial talk about dating, neither had brought it up to clarify exactly what they were doing. They were just doing it, and doing it well, if he had anything to say about it.

He studied her flabbergasted face and the way that she struggled to find a rebuttal. Did she find the idea preposterous? Was it completely insane to think of herself married to Vegeta, of all people? An insecure weight anchored down his chest, and suddenly he began to wonder if he  _were_  to ask her to marry him, would she even say yes?

A small breath escaped from her and she smiled softly at him, her face mirroring his own panic. She shrugged her shoulders, and Vegeta knew then that she was doing this for  _his_  sake. What, did she think he would be angry with her reply, whatever it was?  _Would_  he?

"Who knows what the future holds," he replied honestly, seeing no point in filtering his words, "And when we get to that point, I think this would be the perfect dress to wear." The expression on her face lifted as she drank his words in, her white teeth glimmering as her lips curled over them in a smile. Judging from the look on her face, he had given the right answer. It made his own mouth curve upwards as he locked eye contact with her, the world outside of their tunnel vision becoming irrelevant.

"Well then," Bulma spoke softly, "Perhaps I'll take the dress after all. Who knows what the future holds, right?" He nodded, feeling hypnotized by the entire idea. The saleswoman let out something between a sigh and a giggle, and began offering advice on how Bulma could keep the dress clean and pristine, but Vegeta zoned out completely. Bulma N'Ouija, he thought, didn't sound like too bad of a name. Maybe she'd want to keep her last name, or hyphenate it. It wouldn't be so bad, he decided, to someday repeat those necessary vows to make Bulma his wife.

But…

Vegeta couldn't erase the fear that accompanied the word  _marriage_. Marriage changed people; that was something he had learned early on. And he didn't want that, not for her, and not for him. He wanted her to always be Bulma, and he wanted to always be Vegeta. It had been plenty, and it had been good for him. He didn't want to wake up one day and see hollowed shells of who they used to be, both of them looking through the foggy mirror of love from yesteryear. He didn't want to feel pressured to stay because of a piece of paper, and he didn't want her to feel obligated to love him because she called himself his wife.

Besides, he knew first-hand what world those kinds of people lived in, and it was one he had always vowed to never return to.

oooOOOooo

_The soft lighting of their dining room reflected off of Vegeta's plate, his stomach writhing in fury at its emptiness. He drank down his second cup of water for the evening, hoping it would provide some sort of relief to the pit inside of his belly. The grandfather clock behind him rang madly in his ears, and he began to tap his finger impatiently against the edge of the table in synchronization with it's ticks._

" _Vegeta," Yasai sighed, and he looked up to find her sullen stare washing over him, "Please, son, can you stop that racket? It's driving me mad."_

_Vegeta's fingers stopped its music, but he didn't miss the opportunity to grunt in dissatisfaction. It wasn't fair, he thought as his stomach rumbled again, that he was being subjected to wait._

" _Mother?" Tarble sat his own glass down and whimpered, "Can we please eat? I'm starving!"_

_Yasai sighed and placed her napkin back in her lap for the umpteenth time. Her eyes slowly rolled towards the grandfather clock, her painted lips pressing into a tight line. "Your father should be here any minute, love."_

" _It's been an hour already," Vegeta huffed out, folding his arms across his chest. "You have to face the fact that he isn't coming, Mother." Vegeta stared down to his feet, his frown deepening in the line of his mouth. "I already have."_

" _There's no reason to believe that he won't be home!" Yasai's voice seemed panicky as it rose, and Vegeta knew he had most likely crossed a line. "It's my birthday, for heaven's sake! Surely he wouldn't….would he?" The last words were spoken with such a tender sadness that it made Vegeta angry, and he clenched his fists tightly at his side._

" _Don't worry, Mother!" Tarble's lightbulb of a grin made his mother smile in return, and she sat a little straighter, "I know Father wouldn't miss your birthday! Especially not since I reminded him yesterday, maybe work is just keeping him behind."_

" _Hmmph, work indeed," Vegeta scoffed, refilling his glass with water. He may have been as naïve as Tarble and fallen for the 'work' excuse before, but Vegeta was twenty-one now, and there was no reason for him to deny it any longer. He had heard the rumors, and he was sure that his mother had too. Either his father was having some high collared affair, or he was sniffing his nose in business where it didn't belong. Either way, Vegeta Sr. got no pass from his eldest son about where his time was being spent. "I'm sure Father is working something, alright."_

" _Hush, Vegeta!" Yasai slapped her hand against the table, trying to regain control over the situation, "Don't speak of your father like that, especially in front of me."_

" _What's he mean? And just remember that I'm thirteen, Mother, and I understand sarcasm very well," Tarble looked back and forth between his mother and Vegeta, his cocked eyebrow demanding an answer._

" _Nothing, dear," Yasai cut her eyes at Vegeta, her face burnt with a scowl that rivaled his own, "Your brother is just being silly, isn't that right son?"_

_Vegeta clicked his teeth and swallowed his answer with another sip of his water. His mother didn't release her attentive glare on him, however, not even when their butler strode to the table and bent down by her ear and whispered something to her. Vegeta intently watched her face fall and she desperately tried to catch it, plastering a smile and nodding at the man before he sauntered off back to the kitchen. Yasai reached over and grabbed the unopened wine from the metal bucket on the table, the soft clattering of ice cubes cutting through the tense silence._

" _Well," she cleared her throat and he could tell that her voice was cracking, "It seems your father won't be joining us after all. 'Work' seems to have called his name," she loosened the corkscrew and poured herself a glass of wine before handing it over to Vegeta, "So I suppose you should have a glass too, son. In celebration for you being right over your fool of a mother."_

_A guilty weight sank in Vegeta's belly as he watched her eyes glisten and she drank down her wine. He dragged his stare over to Tarble, who was watching him with a saddened expression. "Happy Birthday to me," Yasai whispered before beginning to fix her plate and gesturing for her boys to do the same. Even though Vegeta was starving only moments before, the somber mood stomped on his appetite until it was nothing more than ashes in the wind. The silent room became too much for him to sit in, and he cleared his throat to grab his mother's attention._

" _Mother," he spoke sternly, yet softly, as if his words would break her glass of a stature, "I've been working on an interesting piece that I plan to present to the theater. I'm hoping that they'll accept my proposal to head my own orchestra."_

" _Oh, really!" Her face perked up, although her features were still pained, "That's wonderful, Vegeta! They'll be fools if they don't take you up on that offer! Everyone else has been offering you a position, but I admire your tenacity on doing things your way."_

_Vegeta pushed himself away from the table and stood, walking towards the common area. "I'll play it for you," he said matter-of-factly, "And you can critique it where you deem it necessary."_

" _I can read you the new poem I wrote, Mother! I was planning on slipping it under your door, but maybe you'd like to hear it aloud. I wrote it for you, after all." Tarble followed suit, heading towards the staircase to his room._

" _Vegeta, Tarble," Yasai spoke their names gently as if her words were a passing wind, but she did not lift her face from her wine glass, "Your father wasn't always this way. Sometimes people can get stressed in a marriage, someday you two may understand. I hope that you will make better decisions, if that is the case."_

_Vegeta scoffed internally, flicking her words away from penetrating his brain as if they were a pesky mosquito. Marriage? Absolutely not, not if this was going to be his life. Vegeta didn't need a wife, not when music would always be his mistress. And unlike his father, he would never pretend like he was conflicted when it came to choosing between the two. Nobody could be that important anyways, he decided._

" _Happy birthday, Mother."_

oooOOOooo

"That's almost everything!" Bulma wiped her hands against her shorts as she sat the last of Vegeta's boxes on his doorstep a few days later, turning around to beam at him. Vegeta loaded it in the moving truck and nodded, stepping back inside to access what still needed to be done. The apartment was practically empty, save for a few pieces of furniture, and relief washed over him that he would no longer have to call this place home anymore. He remembered moving in this apartment so soon after his family's passing, and how the yellow walls held the secrets of his agony at the situation he found himself in. A new start was long overdue.

"Wow, I can't believe how much bigger this place looks without any of your stuff. I can't say I'm surprised at how many instruments you own, but still, it's impressive." She placed her hands on her hips and sat down on a sofa chair, kicking her feet up and wiping her forehead. It was the hottest day of the year so far, and sweat began to pool down her chin and disappear under the cleavage of her tank top. "I can't wait to help you decorate the loft."

"Who says you're going to help decorate?" Vegeta handed her a bottle of water and greedily devoured his own, feeling it race towards his empty stomach. "With my luck, you'll shade the entire room pink."

Bulma swallowed the liquid down and glared at him, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. "Oh come on, I wouldn't do anything  _too_  crazy, but don't act as if you're some magician of interior decorating."

"I don't care about aesthetics, as long as I have a proper place to play my music as much as I want."

"Of course you don't," Bulma stood and strode towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck, "And  _that_  is why you need my help, Vegeta. I can give you the best of both worlds."

"Sounds dangerous," he placed his forehead on hers and enjoyed the feel of her soft body, the heat between them higher than the scorching temperatures outside. Bulma flashed him a smile and leaned her head backwards, slowly scanning her eyes all over the room.

"It's amazing when you think about it, the memories I have here. I know I haven't been here for long, but this is where we started, you know. I'm a little attached to this place." He watched her face grow somber for a moment, as if she were overthinking something. "Today's the last time I really get to be in here."

"There will be an entirely new place that you can get attached to, and even more so because it was  _yours_  first," he was taken aback a little at her mood change, especially due to the fact that she seemed to not want to look at him. Her face showed that she was distracted, as if her body lay in his fingers but her mind was a past the planet itself. "There's no need to be so sad, Bulma."  _He_  surely wasn't, although perhaps he could understand why she might. This was the home that Bulma had shared her body with him, her mind with him, where they danced their feelings out of their feet, where they both discovered a part of themselves that both had long since forgotten. But surely she couldn't think that this was the end-all-be-all of their journey together.

She didn't answer him, instead her eyes showing attention elsewhere. Something popped the bubble on Bulma's playful mood only moments prior, and Vegeta was beginning to wonder if it solely resided in the empty apartment surrounding them. She leaned her body away from him, unhooking her arms from his neck and walking towards his empty bookshelf. "Would you look at that?" She whispered it as if she were talking to herself, but Vegeta could hear an underlying emotion in her words that made him oddly curious. He watched as she stood on her toes and reached for something, clutching it in her hands as if it were a baby bird that required healing. She turned back towards him, a sad smile on her lips. "This is what started all of this, you know," and then she opened her palms to him, a small golden object radiating off of her skin.

Vegeta thought for sure that he tucked it away in a safe place, but maybe he had set it down while packing. Either way, relief he didn't know he needed spread through his veins as he approached and removed it from her hands. He held it up to the light, as if he needed to inspect it for the first time. "Indeed it is," he said, still examining it, "The golden lighter that I told you to keep your hands off of. You were never one to follow directions in the first place."

She blew out a laugh and rested her hands on her hips, finally gracing him with a long enough look. "Yeah, I guess not. But if I listened to you, we wouldn't be where we are now, would we?"

"I guess not."

An unnatural silence was birthed between them, stretching out the minutes until Vegeta could no longer stand it. He was about to question her in regards to her sudden void of words when she spoke, her large eyes staring up at him with the innocence of a child. "You never told me the story behind the lighter."

He swallowed, his mind replaying a black and white film that he would have loved to forgotten. It was his turn to avoid looking at her, choosing instead to run his thumb over the  _VN_  inscription on the underside of the lighter. "It was my grandfather's," he spoke softly, his words passing through like a dying breeze, "He was in the army and got it as an heirloom for his bravery. He used to tell my brother and I about how he saved a bunch of kids from a bomb attack, got them underground before it exploded. Didn't stop him from losing his leg in the blast, though. The villagers made it for him, and he was honored with a lot of prestigious medals. He passed it down to my father, and I  _thought_  he would give it me someday, but…" his words trailed off and his jaw clenched tightly, the rest of the admission dying in his throat.

"But what?"

Vegeta finally looked at her, unable to find the resolve to continue onwards. Repeating those words, saying the rest of the sentence meant that he would be forced to relive the darkest day of his life.

"Vegeta…" Bulma stepped forward, closing the gap between them until their chests touched, her worried eyes soaking him up, "It's okay, you can tell me." Her palm found home against his cheek, stroking it gently with an urgency for him to continue. Vegeta sighed, debating internally if he  _should_.

It was impossible to deny the pleading of her face, even though his brain was programmed to shut the conversation down until he had forgotten it altogether. "My father made a lot of terrible decisions, and he almost took this to sell it for money. To pay Frieza. But I stopped him from doing it before he could."

He expected for her to ask why, and he had already formulated the sentence in his mind as a rebuttal, but the question never left her lips. Instead she let out a sigh and pressed her forehead against his chest, resting it there as if she carried the weight of his problems squarely on her shoulders. Instinctively, he wrapped an arm around her middle, growing concerned. "Bulma, it's not that sad of a story. I  _do_  have the lighter, after all."

She lifted her head, her lips pressed together with cement. The way she looked at him, the words that swam underneath her aquatic colored eyes, everything about her looking at him like that made his curiosity grow. But before he could ask her about it, her mouth crushed against his, kissing him eagerly as if she wanted to take his memory and drink it down herself.

It didn't settle well with him.

"Bulma," he said in between her lips as she pushed him down towards the floor with her body weight, "What are you-"

She gave him no time to reply as she forced her weight on him and straddling his legs, making it hard for Vegeta to concentrate. Her hands roamed his chest, searching for something, something that he knew he didn't have an answer for. He couldn't help his hands doing a natural exploration of their own, finding solace in the dips of her curves. But something about it wasn't right; something about the way she touched him seemed different. Her kisses were usually affectionate, screaming of her love and lust for him, begging him to give her the pleasure her body craved. But her lips were desperate now, demanding to give him something that he didn't know how to accept. He grabbed her shoulders to stop her, make her look at him so that he could see where her clarity lay. Her eyes were downcast as she stared at him with a pity that he didn't particularly enjoy, and Vegeta could no longer stand it. "Bulma," he said sternly, "What's the problem?"

"There is no problem," she tried to move her face back down to his, her lips puckered, but he gripped her shoulders harder.

"Don't lie to me," he narrowed his eyes so that she knew how serious she was, and she breathed out a sigh. "Be as honest with me as you would like me to be with you."

She looked towards the floor, her expression unwavering, and took a deep breath. "When I went to get Yamcha last week, I didn't exactly say  _where_  the jail was."

A jolt surged through his blood, making him prop his head up. "And just where exactly  _was_  it?"

She drifted her eyes to him slowly, biting down on her lower lip. "East City."

Vegeta caught a breath in his throat as the words echoed through his brain, ricocheting around until his head began to ache.  _East City_. The city that was as much a part of him as the bones that barely held him together, and he wiped his face clean with his palm. "I see," he said, sitting up as she slid down to the floor. "You had to drive all the way there, is that it?"

"I did." He watched her play around with her fingers and he didn't need her to continue to know where  _this_  was going. "I had to go to an ATM because their debit reader was down, and the closest ATM was-"

"-Down the street from the jail, on Oak Forest avenue." He paused to suck in a deep breath before adding, "Just past the N'Ouija Manor."

Bulma nodded, her face showing that she knew she had been caught. "I couldn't stop myself even if I wanted to, I had to see it."

Vegeta sat up fully now, resting his elbow on his knee. He ran his fingers through his hair and blew out a chuckle. "Find anything interesting?"

"A little. A woman named Fasha came out and spoke with me. And what she told me made me-"

Vegeta's ringer cut her off, vibrating against his thigh. He brought it out to silence it when he read the message that illuminated the screen, drawing his attention away from the rest of the conversation.

_I need you to come and see me as soon as you can Vegeta. Remember when I said I might know a way out of this mess? Well, I found it._

oooOOOooo

_The door to the basement slammed loudly, startling Vegeta out of his composition. He looked up angrily, his father glaring down at him with barely contained irritation. His chest puffed out, his breaths staggering and uneven, a doppelgänger of his son and his worst mood._

" _Vegeta," he spoke sternly, "You were supposed to meet me over two hours ago like we discussed. Mind explaining to me why I find you in the basement instead, son?"_

_Vegeta rolled his eyes and looked back to his paper, gritting his teeth as if they were his father's words. "I have more important things to do Father. Mind explaining to_ _**me** _ _how you could have forgotten about my new job? About the orchestra?"_

" _Watch your tongue, boy!" Vegeta Sr. stormed closer, his heavy feet mirroring his rising words. "You think that your music is more important than business? Do you realize how much shit you caused me by standing me up in the first place!?"_

" _I told you I don't want to do business with you!" Vegeta glared at his father with enough fire to burn a city, his fingers wrapping tightly around his pen. His father had recently confided in Vegeta about his affairs with Frieza, and how he needed Vegeta's assistance with making more money to help him get out of his shit hole. But as far as Vegeta was concerned, that wasn't his problem. After all, he wasn't the one who got his father involved in the first place. "My place is my music, not helping you with your illegal-"_

" _-FUCK THE MUSIC!" Vegeta Sr. marched to the piano and pushed the papers from the top, letting them fall to the ground like scattered leaves. Vegeta stood, completely offended, his breaths coming out as ragged as his growing anger. "You care more about music than your own family!? Do you know how insulted Frieza was that I promised him a meeting with you and you stood him up? How angry he was?!"_

" _That's not my problem, Father! If you think that you could convince me to give up the only thing that's been fully there for me, then you're a bigger fool than I thought."_

" _Do you hear how idiotic you sound!? Music isn't real, Vegeta. You know what's real? Money. Money is real, and all of the world's problems that come with it. So many of our problems could have been solved, Vegeta! All you had to do was take a ride with your old man!"_

" _Music is real to me, realer than you've ever been anyways. My entire life you've been nothing more than a ghost. Why don't you do us all a favor and leave, huh? It would do us all a lot better!"_

_Vegeta Sr. looked perplexed, his jaw line tightening under his heavy, auburn beard. His eyes narrowed as he studied the man before him, his brain running crazy with overwhelming emotions. "Vegeta," he said sternly, "Perhaps I can convince Frieza to meet with us again. I'm sure that-"_

" _The answer is no. The answer will always be no. I don't care what you have to say - as a matter of fact, why don't you just stop talking. Go back up the stairs and run off to do whatever it is that's kept you away all these years. Does Mother know what you're asking of me?"_

" _Your mother will stay out of this."_

" _I'd expect you to say that. Keeping her out of your life is one of your more consistent hobbies."_

_An angry silence stretched between them, engulfing the room in angry flames. Vegeta refused to back down, not this time. He was a man of twenty-five now, not the same smart mouthed teenager who would still buckle for his father at any given moment. His father was a poison to this family, and if Tarble and his mother were too naïve to see it, then he would make them._

_Vegeta Sr. brushed past him aggressively, bumping his shoulder against his. He stormed to the closet, pulling out boxes and rummaging through them before tossing them and its contents around the room. "What the hell are you doing, Father?!"_

" _Where is it, Vegeta!? I know you have it!"_

" _Where is what?!"_

" _The lighter!" Just as soon as he said it, he found the box it was in, hurrying to rush up the stairs. "This will more than cover the money that I need! Your grandfather would understand, him being the great hero and all."_

" _Absolutely not!" Vegeta rushed towards him, pulling his father back by the shoulders and grabbing the lighter, stuffing it in his pocket and racing up the stairs himself. His father had absolutely lost it, he was convinced, and now he was willing to sacrifice the only valuable thing that they had left. There was no way in hell he was going to let that happen._

_His father marched behind him, screaming his name over and over, but Vegeta continued to ignore him, flying past his mother and Tarble in the kitchen and ignoring their protests. The breeze of the outside smacked him in the face, but did nothing to relieve his temper._

" _Vegeta! Bring that back!" Vegeta Sr. slammed the door and tried to catch his son, but Vegeta made it to his car before that could happen._

" _You've taken enough from this family! I'll be damned if I let you have this too!" Vegeta slammed his car door and sped off, mentally terminating his relationship with his father all together. He could have it all, he didn't care anymore. Not even his mother seemed to be in her right state of mind when he suggested that she finally do them all good and divorce him. And now he was done waiting, done pretending that one day they would be the family that she wanted, that he wanted. All that mattered to Vegeta now was his own happiness and his own successes._

_And his father could burn in hell if he thought otherwise._

oooOOOooo

_A/N_

_Thank you all for the support and reviews! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and I hope it provided a little more history into Vegeta, while offering foreshadow of whats to come. As always, please R &R my friends!_


	20. Epiphanies

_**Concerto Twenty:** _

oooOOOooo

_Well it's definitely been awhile since I've last updated this, huh? I hit a bit of a writer's snag with this story. Not in finishing it, but in how to build the bridge from point A to Z to get *to* that ending. So bear with me please, but I definitely don't plan on abandoning this story. I even have some good news, but more on that later. For now, enjoy this latest installment and I'll see you at the end for the rest of the A/N._

oooOOOooo

Bulma felt like a fool.

The feeling crawled on her skin like leeches, nibbling at her until she itched in madness. A mantra played over in her head like a record stuck in a loop.

_You shouldn't have said anything. You should have just left it alone and talked to him about it on his own terms._

But she didn't. She didn't control her emotions, or her nagging guilt for diving into his past without his consent. She should have known, really. She should have known Vegeta well enough by now to understand how he appreciated some semblance of privacy, no matter how naked and open he got around her. She respected him for it, but there was something so closeted about  _this_  that tugged at her brain beyond belief. And because of that, she had acted out of desperation. She remembered how she just wanted to throw herself on him, like she could remove the traces of pain from his skin with her fingers. When she kissed him, she wanted to swallow down the ugly truths that grew like vines on his lips. She wanted to him to lose himself in the rivers of  _her_ , make him feel so otherworldly good that he would forget he belonged to this one for a moment. Maybe then, he could forget his problems. And maybe then, she could too.

But he immediately latched onto her plan the second her tongue explored his mouth. And when she told him why…. _god…_  she could never burn that look on his face from her memory. The way he looked surprised. Yet, deceived. As if Bulma had unwrapped the box of a present she wasn't supposed to see. She wanted to explain, wanted to tell him the rest and let him know that she understood. Understood his guilt. Understood his grief. Understood how he carried it around all of these years. And more importantly, how she wanted to be the one to melt his barrier away until he could fully heal.

She  _wanted_  to, but before the admission could fall from her lips, Vegeta's phone rung. It had been cryptic, to say the least. She watched Vegeta read over some mystery text on his screen, his eyes growing wider until he looked as if he'd seen a ghost. His eyes were unsettled and dialated as he placed his phone back into his pocket and stood, running his fingers through his hair. She had tried to calm him, get him to open up about what had happened to have him so frazzled. Instead, he looked at her as if she was lightyears away, as if she was a burning star that he'd never get to touch. Her heart softened to melted butter as she sunk into the way he looked at her, the way he looked like he  _wanted_  to tell her, but his tongue was covered in cement. She almost reached out to touch his face and comfort him, but then he told her he had to go. And he did leave.

And mentally, he'd been gone ever since.

She couldn't help but feel like his reaction was towards her, that he was frazzled in anger at her for snooping. But, she reckoned with herself, didn't he know that it was because she cared? Did that not matter, anyways? Her brain became foggy with all sorts of questions that she knew wouldn't get answered by him, especially when he was feeling this way. She took a deep breath and stood from the stool in her basement, running her fingers through her hair. If she was going to give in to her anxieties, she could at least put it to better use.

She grabbed a smock off of a table littered with paint supplies and wrapped it around her body. The fabric of the smock provided a familiar mask that she could hide behind, one that she thought she wouldn't need again. Damn it, why couldn't she have a seemingly  _normal_  relationship with him? Why couldn't they have normal problems that couples seemed to encounter, like him leaving the toilet seat up, or having the television too loud when she was trying to sleep? She sighed and realized that wouldn't be fun to her anyways. If Vegeta's life was 'normal', then he wouldn't be the man she fell in love with, now would he?

She stood in front of her blank canvas, staring at it as if it held the answers to her woes. As she dipped her brush into the black paint and glided it across her canvas, she desperately wished it did.

Her mind went completely on auto pilot; her hand taking over her brain and producing the story that she wanted to tell. The black paint smeared dramatically across the top until lavender cut across it, weaving with hints of blue to create a stormy sky. Whites and beiges formed various shapes of people, soft droplets of blue mimicking thick raindrops. The creamy blobs began to birth themselves into humans, forming a more concrete shape, and as Bulma studied her handiwork,she realized that they were  _happy_ ; protected by their crimson or orange umbrellas, bundling up in their purple coats, one couple holding hands of their young daughter with a dandelion yellow rain jacket. The greys of the streets gave them purpose as they moved about, their destinations unknown but welcomed. Various depths of whites accented different parts of the painting, giving the illusion of bright lights against tall buildings. The canvas had become a bustling city, one bursting with so much energy Bulma could feel it in the grooves of her skin.

One spot in the lower corner of the canvas remained untouched; the colorless shape easily the focal point of the canvas. She felt small bursts of anxieties dance from her fingers as she mixed hues in her color palette, using the brush to bring the phantom shape to life. A boy, probably in his early teens, sat on the curb of one of those streets, visually different from the landscapes around him. Where the colors of the people and buildings popped against the grainy and distorted background, he blended into it. The raindrops melted into his skin, disappearing against his shape the moment the colors married providing the only source of color to his otherwise grey flesh. His face was distinct; the features of his face were more complex than the distorted faces around him. Instead his expression was vivid. Alive. The depths of his eyes masked with a stoic expression. His chin rested against the top of his knees as his arms wrapped around his small body. He sat on the curb, unaware of how different he was. How pivotal his presence was. The others delighted in their protection from the storm, but he became it. His thick, black hair, angled high past his skull, drooped slightly due to the heavy rain. It stood out most about him, like the last flame of an almost extinguished candle. He looked onward, past the streets, past the edges of the canvas onto something more. Something bigger than himself.

She found herself drawn to that determination.

Bulma stepped back from the almost completed painting and stared at the boy, the edges of her eyes misting. Uncaring about the wet oils, she brought a finger to the boy's cheek, stroking downward until she left a messy trail on his face. Oh little boy who sits out in the rain. Oh little boy who doesn't realize he controls the storm. Oh little boy who feels unnoticed, who's been gobbled up by greedy dark clouds. Who has never had the protection of others.

_Don't you see that you don't have to be alone?_

Light footsteps descended down the stairs behind her, making Bulma wipe her tears, unknowingly getting paint on her skin. She didn't turn around, instead biting down on her lip to keep her composure. A warmth radiated over her shoulders, the light breaths of the person tickling the back of her neck.

"Well that is certainly interesting, honey. A little dark, but very captivating." Dr. Briefs adjusted his glasses and stood to Bulma's side, studying the painting as if he were an art critic. "Makes me kind of sad, if I stare at it too long."

Bulma swallowed, unable to formulate a decent reply. Talking sour about Vegeta in any regard just didn't  _feel_ right, and especially not with her father. He knew first-hand how much she  _adored_  Vegeta, how even saying his name left a trail of honey on her tongue. The idea of tarnishing the perception her father had of the man she loved so much made her feel awful.

"Is that Vegeta?" He asked matter-of-factly, moving to fold his arms over his chest. "Why's he looking so sad? Maybe because he's so wet. You couldn't bother to paint the boy a raincoat?" He chuckled at himself and made her smile too, although it was a temporary grin that quickly straightened into a thin line.

"I guess I wasn't sure  _how_  he was supposed to look," she sighed, finally responding, "My hands just created until I told them to stop. I don't really know what the message is here, but it's finished none the less." She tore her eyes away from the painting, opting to sit back down in her seat.

Dr. Briefs stroked his thick mustache and looked at it again, narrowing his eyes as if he could see through the colors to find a bigger purpose for the piece. "Well when I look at it, I see a boy who is resilient. A boy who's determined to stick the storm out until the sun shines again, one who doesn't mind getting a little wet. We all have our comforts of being sheltered from the rain, but it takes true conviction to stand with it."

"But," Bulma looked to her feet, feeling boggled down by her emotions, "Why stand through the rain if someone's offering you a dry place to escape? Why keep ignoring their help if you're only going to get sick with fever in the end? No one benefits from sitting in the middle of a storm."

Dr. Briefs took a deep breath. Bulma watched as his shoes pointed in her direction, but she couldn't raise her head to look at him. Not yet. "Well, honey, if everyone was always equipped to handle bad weather, would we ever learn courage? Humanity? Empathy? Some people suffer through the storm so that others don't have to go through it. They take that pain and isolation and use it for something greater. Something better."

"What good does that do when something better  _is_  the escape?" She finally lifted her head up to meet his eyes, the blues of her irises sleeping behind fluffy tears. "Why not just  _go_  to the greater? Why not understand that it  _hurts_  me—I mean,  _people_ , to see you outside when you know you can offer the right protection? Why isolate yourself from  _them_? Why grow so quiet and make them worry about you until they can't eat, or sleep, or even function properly—"

"Bulma." Dr. Briefs knelt down and put his hands on her shoulders, staring at her earnestly. His expression turned serious, the edges of his eyes hardening. It startled her, freezing the tears that threatened to stain her face. "Listen to me. I don't know what's going on with you and Vegeta, and I don't know much about where he comes from or what he's been through. But the few times I've met him, I can tell you that he's a  _survivor_. He's a man that needs to do things his way. I can hear it in the music he conducts, that he writes. He's stubborn, isn't he? He seems like it, and I've heard for years now that he has a certain method of working himself out. I'm sure he has that same tactic for how he solves his problems. Now I don't know that for certain, but I've got a good reader on people. And I'm rarely wrong, my dear. For example, how's Yamcha?" He raised his eyebrow knowingly and Bulma breathed in deeply, a breathy laugh falling from her lips.

"What I do know, Bulma, is that man  _loves_  you. I can see it in the way he looks at you, how he talks to you. How he leads you while still allowing you to walk your own way. He treats you as if you're a fragile, precious thing to him. Now tell me, how do you handle precious things? Do you throw them out to battle for you? Or do you try to keep them safe? Protected?"

Bulma squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. "I  _know_  he loves me, Dad, really I do. The same night he told me so, he also promised he wouldn't leave me out again. But as soon as something comes up, he emotionally  _abandons_  me instead of letting me in and-"

"To  _protect you_ , Bulma. Sometimes the best way to protect someone is to let them in when the time is right. To give them only as much information as the situation allows for. I can tell his mannerisms that he is the keeper of something awful. You don't have to tell me what it is, but I can understand how people can confuse that as something personal. And then you come along and show him something different, something kind and pure. Can't  _you_  see that? Why he doesn't want to taint you in that way? Can you imagine going through whatever he's going through, something hard and sharp and painful, and still trying to hold on to your most precious thing? Wouldn't you need time to marinate on how to handle that too?" Dr. Briefs softened his face and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. "It's not always going to be easy, Bulma. Your relationship with Yamcha showed you that plenty. It's hard to see because you love him, and you love him in such an organically raw way that it's impossible for you to understand why he isn't absorbing you into his pain. But you  _have_  to let him figure out his own way. All you need to do is be there for him instead of trying to figure it out. I'll even bet in the silence, he's working on easing himself to a better version of him. And he's going to share that version with you."

"You sound so sure, Dad." She took a deep breath and sat up a little straighter, rubbing her palms against her knees. "But what if he  _can't_ …"

At her continued silence, Dr. Briefs raised an eyebrow. "He can't  _what,_ honey?"

"He can't….he can't…"  _She_  trailed off as realization swam over her. All of this time, Bulma had been so adamant on learning Vegeta. She learned what made him tick, what made him create, what made him hurt, what made him smile. She'd seen a hardened man who fought to free himself of his past. She'd grown with a man who, despite all that he'd been throught, decided to make a little room for her in his turbulent world. She'd known so much about him that it  _scared_  her, because in all her learning, all she wanted to do was heal him. Heal him so that he wouldn't drown in his sorrows. So that he wouldn't forget to swim back to the shore for her.

So that he wouldn't forget her.

And when he went quiet like this…all she could wait for was a phone call telling her he couldn't do this with her around. That he couldn't start this new life, this  _better_ life, when he was plagued by the demons of his past. That she was expecting more out of him than he was willing to give. Bulma wanted the best out of Vegeta because he deserved it. He deserved a life that he could look back on and be proud of. One that included her in it. And Vegeta had more than shown her that he had no plans of leaving, so why was there a nagging feeling in the back of her brain that burned with the thought that  _this_ time, she had gone too far?

Was he….was he planning on leaving her because of it?

The thought alone was agonizing; one that made her stomach clench before the sentence could finish formulating in her mind. If she had successfully pushed Vegeta away, it would be too much. It would be entirely too much.

She suddenly felt extremely selfish. Since the beginning, she's demanded from him. Demanded his friendship, demanded his back story. Demanded that he let her live out her fantasy with him. And what did she have for him in return, other than sneakily getting information about his life? How incredibly stupid was she?

"Bulma," Dr. Briefs smiled, "Whatever you're mentally putting yourself through, stop it. The only thing that you need to know, and you can remember these words for the rest of your life…"

Bulma eyes snapped open and she searched her father's face for the resolution to her plaguing worries, holding on to his words with the last shred of her crumbling dignity.

"Is that Vegeta is going to marry you. I know it in my heart of hearts, and I'd bet my life on that deep down inside, you know it too. Remember me telling you this when you're walking down the aisle towards him that day." He pressed a kiss to the top of her forehead and stepped backwards, looking at her stricken face. "Don't worry about the small things. Everything is going to be all right,just trust me on that, okay? Vegeta is going to get over whatever hurdles he has, and he's going to cross that finish line with you. Just be patient honey." Bulma chewed on her lips, and his words, as her brain replayed her in that beautiful white dress, the day where she felt like royalty. The day where she imagined what it would be like to be a bride. Vegeta's bride. His words echoed around her brain as she recalled the bridal shop moment a few weeks ago.

 _You never know what the future holds_.

He wouldn't have said that if he didn't mean it, right? Bulma never considered herself the marrying type. She always figured she'd be too busy for a wife. That she'd be too busy to be Yamcha's wife, that is. But Vegeta certainly  _wasn't_  Yamcha, and Bulma knew without doubt that she could spend the rest of her life with him. Even through all of this bad, even though all of this chaos, she'd still say yes. Again, and again, and again. She looked up to the painting and realized she had gotten the whole thing wrong. Where there was a little boy weathering the storm, there should have been a little girl with blue hair. Or even better, she should have been sitting beside him.

Dr. Briefs cleared his throat and looked down to his watch. "Isn't Chi Chi's pre wedding dinner tonight? It's already going on five oclock. That doesn't give you a long time to get prepared, does it?"

 _Shit_.

The anchor of guilt tugged at her ankles and she felt like a terrible friend. She took a deep breath and shook her head clear, already transitioning her mind towards the next phase of the afternoon. Chi Chi requested to have a big meal at her place for her friends and family in lieu of a rehearsal dinner, and Bulma had of course said she'd be there with bells on. Vegeta requested that he sit this one out, not that she thought he'd leap over the moon about it. After all, he  _did_  say yes to attending the wedding, and she wouldn't boggle him down further with any other social events. But, she determinedly thought, maybe he wouldn't mind her swinging by the loft afterwards. Perhaps he'd be willing to listen to her apology. One that he more than deserved.

"Thank you, Dad," she stood, embracing him in a hug. "I needed to hear that. I had no idea the kind of pressure I may have been putting on him. Or not trusting him enough to come to me when he's ready. "

"Whatever you did, I know you enough to know you did it because you care. And you're welcome honey. For repayment of my services, you can promise me that you won't make your old man wait too long on a wedding. I'll turn in my grave before I watch someone else drag you down the aisle."

"Oh ha ha, Dad," she let the hug go and watched him walk towards the stairs, "But of course. I could never thank you enough for always getting through this thick skull of mine."

"Well," he lit a cigarette and prepared to exit through the door leading upstairs, "Perhaps if you want to thank me  _now_ , I suppose there is something you could do."

She threw her hand in the air and crossed her fingers, placing it on her chest. "I promise I'll buckle down and help you finally finish the smart home this week. Scout's honor."

"I know  _that_ , but I was referring to something more immediate. I want you to go wash your face before you head off to Chi Chi's. You've got a nasty streak of paint taking place of your makeup. I need to be the only strangely dressed Briefs in this household." He flashed her a quick smile and wink and disappeared through the doors, leaving Bulma feeling a  _lot_  more relieved, and with a hell of an apology stained on her tongue.

oooOOOooo

Bulma realized she had never been to Chi Chi's house.

It was a lot different from what she had been expecting, although she didn't know why she imagined Chi Chi stuffing her family into a large home. Instead it was rather quaint; Bulma found the drive to be somewhat whimsical as drove down long winding roads, finally locating it tucked behind layers and layers of willow trees, far on the outskirts from the hustle and bustle of the city. Everything about the scenery, from the robust trees to the seclusion the nature provided was  _very_  much the tastes of her family oriented friend. Bulma pulled in front of the tiny, domed house and parked behind a row of cars on the narrow street and entered  _fashionably_  late.

The earthy colors that adorned the accents of the home were cozy with warmth, speaking volumes of a close knit family. Bulma became drawn to the various family photos that decorated the place, especially the stretched, goofy grin of Goku. She could almost hear his laughter leaping from the frames as he appeared just as much -if not more- fun as Gohan. If she didn't know him, she would swear he was, as Chi Chi liked to refer to him, a man child. Oddly enough, his naivety in the photos made her smile, as if he represented something pure about the world. His personality was infectious; she didn't even need to converse with him often to have his lively mannerisms rub off on her. She assumed that's how he must have been with everyone. Even Vegeta. He would speak of the man in clipped words and mocking tones, but underneath that façade, Bulma could hear an immense amount of respect for him. They were so opposite, he and Vegeta, and yet Bulma couldn't think of anyone better to complement Vegeta's sour attitude. Other than her, that was.

"Bulma!" Chi Chi pulled her from her thoughts as she noticed her stepping through the living room. She stood, walking gracefully to her, a delighted smile forming around her mouth. She looked so ethereally  _radiant_  with her hair pinned away from her face, a long ivory dress hugging her body. "You finally made it! I was worried you weren't going to come!"

Bulma flashed her an apologetic smile, extending her arms with a pot of her mother's spaghetti. She hoped her mother's marsala wine sauce could make up for her tardiness. "I'm sorry I'm late, Chi Chi. I got completely wrapped up in a painting. I'm pretty terrible these days. "

Chi Chi accepted the dish and shook her head, nodding back to the dinner table. "Now don't go beating yourself up, I'm just happy you came. You didn't miss much, really. We were just about to start serving dinner. It's a little tight because the guys brought dates, but I saved you a seat next to Krillin."

Ah, Krillin. She had met Krillin a handful of times through Yamcha, but had never gotten to know the man personally. Vegeta's talked about him, too, although it was never in the same spirit as her ex boyfriend. Bulma knows how he feels about the man's remarkable talent, despite his anxious personality. Although she was willing to bet that Vegeta's imposing presence had a lot to do with his stuttered words and practiced small talk. She entered the dining room and was immediately taken a bit aback, not expecting everyone to be so…so  _coupled._

Chi Chi showed her to her seat and Bulma got a good look at the guests around her, landing eyes on a nervous Yamcha. Seated next to him was a very attractive woman, although the way she was dressed was a little…  _obnoxious_  for a dinner party. Bulma could taste the expensive perfume that spilled from her skin, could practically see herself in the reflection of her midnight black hair. She looked bored, popping her gum tediously as if being here was a waste of her time. Yamcha had always said that he didn't like  _those_  sorts of women, the ones who could barely hold a conversation outside of their own aesthetics, but Bulma could trace the vanity tattooed on the woman's skin. She shifted focus immediately back over to Yamcha. He licked his lips as if he had been caught, as if Bulma had verbally reprimanded him on the mannerisms of his date. Something apologetic swam in his eyes and he flashed her a lopsided grin. Out of the spirit of newly attained friendships, she grinned back at him, although she hoped that her eyes successfully expressed her curiosities of the woman next to him.

"Everyone," Chi Chi announced, filling a glass with wine and passing it down the line to Bulma, "I'm sure most of you have already met her, but if not, the blue haired beauty down there is my good friend Bulma."

"Nice to see you again, Bulma." Krillin turned in his seat and handed her the wine glass, smiling at her as if they were lifetime friends. "Is Vegeta coming too? When I saw you walk in, I thought for sure he'd be with you, considering Chi Chi said we could bring our dates."

There was a clearing of the throat from the woman next to Krillin, who, according to Vegeta, was in the orchestra too, and apparently dating Krillin. Eighteen, he said her name ice in her eyes and the sharp aura that surrounded her never seemed welcoming enough for Bulma to initiate a conversation with her, but Vegeta raved about how she had a perfect ear for pitch changes and things of the like. Bulma respected her assertiveness as one of the few women in Vegeta's male dominated orchestra, and she respected how she didn't take Vegeta's shit. Bulma would have to stifle back her laughter as he would tell her what  _else Eighteen said_ for that day. Eighteens frost bitten blue eyes shifted from Krillin and across the table to Yamcha before settling on Bulma. Krillin laughed awkwardly and gulped down some of his wine, his cheeks turning the shade of apples. "Sorry guys, I didn't think properly. I just meant that-"

"It's okay, Krillin," Yamcha spoke up, his words affectionate with honey as he briefly glanced to Bulma, "If Bulma's happy, then so am I. No matter who she's dating. We're… _better_  now. I dare even say a budding friendship. " Bulma may have been touched by the sincerity of his words, but if the sharpened dagger glare that his date tossed at Bulma had anything to say about it, the woman wasn't too thrilled. Bulma felt her throat closing up at the poison stare the woman gave her, but she swallowed it down with a sip of her wine, mentally chastising Yamcha for his choice in women.

"Well I'm certainly glad to hear that!" Goku was already filling his plate with various foods from the center spread, sporting his signature goofy grin as he looked at Bulma and Yamcha. "Maybe now you and Vegeta can make amends and you can come play with us again! It sure would be nice to have you back; it just isn't the same without ya."

"I'll have to agree on that too," A bald man that Bulma recognized as Tien spoke, someone Yamcha apparently rivaled with for first chair. Vegeta didn't have too much to say about Tien, but there was a sly smile that would spread across his face before he said simply: "Now  _him_ I like." Tien passed a dish to his blonde haired date and nodded down to Yamcha. "There's something missing from the cello section. We all can feel it. I don't know if it's because I don't have to show out because I don't have competition anymore, or you're missed because you're actually  _good_."

Yamcha chuckled at Tien before slowly sliding his eyes to Bulma, his comical expression fading. He fumbled around with his fork and looked down to his plate. He seemed to chew over his words carefully, only speaking when he deemed them savory enough to say. "Well, I don't know about  _that_. I doubt Vegeta will be as forgiving as the leading lady in his life. Although I won't lie, I  _really_  miss playing with you guys."

Something in the way he said that made Bulma's heart drop, as if Yamcha was pleading for her to talk to Vegeta. She knew how much Yamcha adored playing the cello, how even through his arrogance he had found his calling. How alive he felt when he played his parts right. The beam in his eyes after a successful concert. How he actually looked forward to rehearsals. She knew that the tantrum he threw was a result of their tornado of a break up, and a small jolt of guilt surged through her. If Yamcha was trying to be a better person, did he still have to be exempt of a second chance?

"Now boys, this isn't the time for work talk. It  _is_  the night before our wedding and all." Chi Chi scooped some potatoes onto her plate and suggestively looked to Bulma, indicating that she was rescuing her from the uncomfortable situation. She smiled at Chi Ch with gratitude and received a dish from Krillin, carefully looking back to Yamcha. She cleared her throat to grab his attention.

"You should talk with him, Yamcha. He's not all skulls and bones and nightmares. First and foremost, he respects and appreciates musicians, and a  _good_  one at that. The worst that can happen is that he'll say no, but I think it's worth a shot." Yamcha's face seemed to light up at her words, and he lifted one corner of his mouth to show his appreciation.

"Thank you, B." He let his gaze linger on her for a bit more, his eyes tossing around something familiar that she hadn't seen from him in a long time. Back when they first met and he told her he thought she was cool and wanted to be her friend. Hearing him use his nickname for her so casually actually felt refreshing, as if she was gaining that old friend back, before they gave into those feelings that arose some time later.  _This_ was the Yamcha she missed; the one with the dorky smile and the silly laugh. She passed the dish across the table and looked down to Chi Chi, who quickly mouthed her a  _thank you_. Bulma nodded back before taking some more food from Krillin, preparing to immerse herself in the soft glow of the evening.

.

..

.

..

Goku insisted on a bon fire and urged everyone outiside, but Bulma found herself straggling behind, finishing her umpteenth glass of wine. The truth was she was having a splendid time; talking to the guys of the orchestra was far more entertaining than she would have imagined. Listening to their trips down memory lane of their embarrassing moments in rehearsal were fun, but it was their opinions and mockery of Vegeta's temper that made her side ache in laughter. She could imagine what it would have been like had he come with her, how his face would have turned several shades of red as he listened to the drunken men tease him. Or perhaps he would have enough spirit in him to trash talk back. She even learned that Krillin, in all his wariness of Vegeta, did a perfect impression of his screaming matches. That was the moment she learned that she was, indeed,  _very_  drunk, and the croak of laughter that spread around the table was infectious as she bathed in the warmth of the wine.

But inside, she really missed Vegeta. Hearing stories about him, listening to how much they admired his insane talent made her want to bundle the compliments in her mouth and kiss it to him later. Being around everyone with their respective dates did little to ease her slight. With the abundance of wine, and the occasion of a wedding, the guests found themselves becoming more affectionate. Even the cold exterior of Eighteen had begun to chip away as she held hands with Krillin under the blanket of stars. Bulma had managed to slip away back in the house, wanting nothing more to lay like that with Vegeta and bask in lovely atmosphere.

Instead of joining them, she found herself in the Son living room where Goku kept all of his instruments. Bulma was impressed; she thought Vegeta was the only one with an extensive collection. But Goku definitely gave him a run for his money with his variety of wind and wood instruments. What really drew her into the room was a grand classic piano, one that was worn and torn for wear around the pristine ivory keys. She sat down at the bench, the old wood creaking under her weight, and stretched her fingers across the keys, experimentally pressing down on one. She gulped down a larger portion of her wine as the croak of the piano sang in her ears, a hollow sound that left a bitter coating on her tongue. Remembering all of the times she'd watched Vegeta play, she changed routes and opted for the opposite keys on the piano instead, pressing it desperately. That was better. Something more light, more lively. "You want to sing me a song, don't you little keys?" She whispered to them as if they would reply, as if they would be honored to sing for her. She chuckled to herself and pressed down on it, the room alive with the sound of bells ringing from under her finger. "Very good, little one. I like the way you sound…umm… you're  _E_ , right?"

"Actually, you played  _E_  first. That one was  _A_."

Bulma froze as the sound of the piano faded out into the creases in the wall, the voice behind her serenading her ears. She looked down to her wine glass, immediately blaming it for its hallucinating effects. There was no way that she was hearing his  _voice_  now. Did she miss him that much?

She turned around to the entrance of the living room, expecting to confirm that she was entirely  _too_  drunk. But standing there in a gray buttoned up, his hands shoved into his darker gray slacks, was Vegeta leaning against the doorframe. His face drank in the shadow of the room, and Bulma realized that she hadn't bothered to turn the lights on. It made the angles of his jawline stand out, the sharp lines of his eyes more defined. He stared at her intensely, although Bulma couldn't see the message behind his handsome face.

"Vegeta," she swallowed, wondering if he would finally yell at her about prying into his life, or worse, confirming the anxieties she drowned in only hours earlier. She tried to hold on to her father's words, but his wisdom was covered by the haze of her buzz. "What are you doing here?"

He took a deep breath and leaned off of the wall, taking a few steps into the room. "I received a phone call from Kakarot. Said something about you being here dateless and he thought you might be sad about it. You could have told me you  _needed_  me to come."

Bulma glanced to the carpet at his feet, wondering if it would've been  _that_ simple to have gotten him to come in the first place. "I honestly didn't think you'd want to go to this." She wiped her palms against the fabric of her dress and looked back to him, feeling her words grow heavy in her throat under the influence of wine. "Or that you'd even want to see me."

Vegeta raised an eyebrow towards her, narrowing his eyes as he studied her for a moment. He grunted and walked towards her, his eyes penetrating her own. She turned fully in her seat, preparing herself for the chastising she was sure she deserved. He stood in front of her and Bulma inhaled the scent of his woodsy cologne. She tried to swallow down the desire to just  _have_  him, especially with her current condition. But he was so handsome, so beautiful. She could never grow tired of looking at him, could never grow tired of being in his presence. She willed herself to focus back on the matter at hand, telling her body that now wasn't the time to be thinking of such things. Remembering of why they were here in the first place, she swallowed. A boulder pressed down in her throat, and her eyes began to sting.

"I'm…I'm sorry, Vegeta." She cursed the wine for making a tear slip from her eye and fall delicately to her cheek. Now that the tears had permission, another one fell. And another. "I….I shouldn't have pried. I-I just..I j-just can't  _stand_  to s-see you so h-hurt-" She hadn't planned on sobbing, hadn't planned on getting too emotional. That damn wine and her damn emotions, taking over her when she wanted to be more level headed.

"Bulma." Vegeta knelt down to her, just as her father had done earlier, and brushed his thumb against her cheek. He gently removed her tears from her face, touching her so tenderly it made her heart break. He touched her like he didn't want to break her. As if she was fragile. As if she were something precious. He placed his hand under her chin and locked eyes with her, looking more sincere than she'd ever seen him. "You have nothing…absolutely  _nothing_ … to apologize for."

Bulma sniffled and widened her eyes, completely thrown back by his words. "W-what? You're not mad?"

Vegeta took a long breath and looked away for a moment. "Being honest with you, yes. At first. But not because you went snooping again. Because you found out things that I wasn't comfortable telling you in detail yet. I…I wasn't ready to have that conversation with you. With  _anyone_." He looked slowly back to her before adding, "And I don't know if I'm fully ready yet."

 _God,_ was she ever grateful to have had that conversation with her father earlier. She nodded her head in his hand, flashing him the most genuine smile she could muster. "It's okay, Vegeta. You don't have to if you're not ready. If you want to tell me about it, do it on your own terms."

She watched his throat bob as he swallowed roughly, his expression shifting to one that mirrored her own. He closed his eyes and she could pull the thoughts that ran across his face if she wanted to. "I realize that I don't deal with things in the way that…I  _should_ ….I understand that I need to work on running away. It wasn't….It wasn't  _you_  exactly that I was running away from."

He looked so uncomfortable, as if his real words were stuck in the spaces of his teeth and causing him pain. Bulma knew what he was getting at. He was trying so hard to say it, but she imagined that for someone like Vegeta - someone who spent a lifetime dealing with this nightmare in the best way he could- it must be difficult. She grabbed his face with her hands, cupping each side of his cheeks gently and bringing his lips to hers. She kissed him with as much affectionate as her mouth would allow before pulling back and smiling at him. "It's okay, Vegeta. I'm not mad, I just… I just don't want to be away from you anymore." And she meant it. She didn't need his apology. Didn't want it. The only thing she wanted from him….was  _him._

He reached up and grabbed her wrist, stroking it gently before moving her hand away and standing. She moved back towards the piano and pet the seat next to her, indicating for him to sit. He stared at her as he lowered his body, his eyes saying far more than she knew he vocally would. He was sorry. He missed her. He wanted more with her. He wanted  _this_  with her. And most importantly, like her father had said:

He loved her. Undoubtedly.

"I want you to know that I may have found a solution to Frieza," he grabbed her hand and placed her fingers to the keys, his own hand on top of hers. He pressed several keys simultaneously, producing a beautiful sound that danced through Bulma's ears. Her chest took off in flight and she gasped, a hopeful relief warming her bones.

"Really? What is it? How is it?"

He looked down to their fingers as he continued playing chords, soon forming a fluid melody. "I don't know all of the details yet, but I'm supposed to meet with some people at the wedding tomorrow. I'll know then."

"Vegeta," Bulma blew out a worried breath, "There won't be any issues, right? Not at Goku and Chi Chi's wedding."

He shook his head and stood slightly, wrapping his leg on the other side of her body. She leaned backwards against his chest as he grabbed her other hand, using their fingers to add more depth to the progression of notes. "It isn't bad. I'll just be listening to some information. Other than Nappa, I don't know  _who_  I'm meeting yet. I only know that they have important knowledge that could very well help me out."

She relaxed further into his embrace and let him continue their playing, a soft and slow melody enveloping their bodies. Bulma hoped that he would remember the keys so that he could write it down. So that he could play it later. So that she could paint to it. So that she could always say this was their song. "Okay," she eased into the comfort of his words, feeling the grogginess of the wine begin to weigh her down, "Just whatever you do, be careful, alright?"

She felt him lean his chin against the side of her neck and nod, and a smile spread across her face. She closed her eyes and began to hum along with the melody, feeling herself begin to drift away in the warmth of his embrace. She could live like this forever. Live this moment forever.

"Vegeta," she said with a yawn, wiggling her head to move a blue curl from her top lip, "I love you. And I hope you know I always and only want the best for you."

The music continued on, providing a lullaby for Bulma as she sighed happily. Vegeta's deep, velvety voice echoed through her ears as he hummed along. She was further away now, floating along the smooth currents of his spell.  _Everything's going to be okay_.

"I know you do," he responded after a while, nuzzling his lips to the bottom of her ear, "And I hope you know it is mutual."

oooOOOooo

_A/N_

_Thank you guys for still sticking around for this story! You guys are the absolute best, I love you all so much! In fact, that leads me to my great news: Concerto, along with my other short story Saiyan Cells, has been nominated for *two* categories for The Prince and The Heiress 2017 awards! *cues balloons and trumpets*. To whomever nominated me, thank you ,thank you, THANK YOU! Concerto and Saiyan Cells (which I totally was NOT expecting, especially since it's such a short story) have both been nominated for Best of The Undiscovered, and Concerto was nominated for Best Slow Burn as well. Now I won't tell you who or what to vote for (because geeze, there are some *amazing* stories in the categories I'm in. And I STRONGLY recommend you guys check out the ongoing fic Places That We Knew by wbss21 over on Ao3.) But if you'd like to vote for me or any of the other talented writers, head on over to Tumblr to The Prince and The Heiress page and click on their voting link! It ends really soon so you'll have to hurry!_

_Also to those of you who have told me how much you love Nappa in this story, you'll get plenty of him next chapter. I've found that I_ _ **really**_   _enjoy writing Nappa._

_Again thank you guys so much, I read every comment, and although I'm terrible at responding, I really appreciate each and every one, and I also am very moved by them. Thank you guys! I'll try not to take so long next time lol. With that being said, if you enjoyed the chapter please leave a review! Till next time everyone!_


	21. For Better?

_**Concerto Twenty-One: For Better?** _

The weather in Mt. Paozu that afternoon was absolutely perfect.

It was as if the gods purposely dipped their brushes in the crisp shade of azure before covering the earth, as if they carefully sprinkled cotton clouds in the right areas. The late morning sun tucked itself in between two clouds comfortably, reducing the temperature so that guests wouldn't melt under the rising heat. Vegeta was grateful for that much, considering that he was dressed head to toe in a full suit -one that Bulma insisted that he wear for the occasion. She had picked it out herself, begging him to try it on, exclaiming that he would look so, "dapper in it!" He wanted to refuse; he had never been one to enjoy wearing layers upon layers with his suits, but to stop her squealing, he obliged. If it weren't for the obvious ogling she did when he stepped out of the dressing room, it would have ended back on the rack.

Bulma ran her fingers down his poppy red tie, the same color as her dress and lipstick. She wiggled her eyebrows at him suggestively, making him turn away from her to avoid the embarrassing stares of others. She threw her head back and laughed heartedly, the sound cuddling around him until he was forced to turn back to her. She looked upon him prettily, her curls bouncing on her shoulders as she brought her face back down.

"I'm happy you listened to me and bought this suit, Vegeta. Blue is a really good color on you. You look  _delectable_ ," at the emphasis of the compliment, she narrowed her eyes and licked her top row of teeth, slowly bringing her fluffy lips to ear. "You know what they say about what weddings to do people, right?"

She chuckled venomously in his ear and he placed his hand on her elbow, gritting his teeth at how  _saucy_  she was being. "Do you have to be so vulgar in front of  _all_  these people, Bulma?" He shifted his eyes around to the scattered guests  _oohing_  and  _aahing_  the decorations of Chi Chi's father's backyard. There were flowers  _galore_ , as if she and Goku were marrying in a botanical garden, and the heavenly atmosphere was quite the contradiction to Bulma's sinful words.

She drew her head back and smiled at him, returning to his side and leading him to one of the floral arrangements. "I can't help it. I've just never seen you look  _this_  good. Can you blame me for being attracted?" Oh he could  _certainly_  understand  _that_. It had been next to near impossible for him to focus on anything else other than Bulma. He really didn't care about the wedding, aside from two important reasons. The first was that she requested for him to go, and as he realized the night previously, it didn't sit right with him for Bulma to attend these sorts of events alone. He dreaded it, actually, having to sit amongst a crowd of overly emotional people who  _only_  wanted to support and cheer for Kakarot. If it were up to Vegeta, he would've given the man a quick and mumbled, 'congratulations' at rehearsal before going about his day. But the vision that walked out of his bathroom less than an hour ago made the event a little more bearable. Especially since he had the pleasure of having her for his date.

He felt the same as she regarding her appearance ; he had never seen her beauty taken to  _this_  sort of level. She was on a different scale entirely, and he wasn't sure if it was he was just under the influence of the joyful feeling that spread through the air, even if he wanted no parts in it. Her curled hair bounced on her shoulders with every step, reminding Vegeta of clouds passing through the sky above them. Her face alone made up for the nagging feeling of him not wanting to be here, and that kept him composed enough to arrive.

But there was a bigger reason of why he had to come to the wedding. One that made him anxious as he fastened his cuff links; one that made him grip the steering wheel tightly as he maneuvered through the heavy Saturday traffic. One that could ultimately save him from the hell of Frieza's grasp altogether.

Bulma crooned over a centerpiece on the guestbook table but Vegeta's mind wandered for a second. He carefully slid his eyes around the perimeters of the yard, skimming past dozens of men and women to find the possible source of his relief. Nappa had told him that he would meet him at the wedding, something Vegeta was surprised that he was attending in the first place. As far as Vegeta had known, Nappa only ever conversed with Raditz, so the idea that he would crash his brother's wedding was a bit strange to him. But Nappa had insisted that the wedding would be the  _perfect_  place to talk, said something about it being secluded enough. Vegeta asked no further questions after he said that, only feeling hopeful that Nappa had been true on his word about finding a way out. His stomach sank as the search for his uncle came up empty, and even though he reminded himself that the wedding hadn't actually started yet, his patience was weaning.

"Vegeta," Bulma's voice was low and she kept her attention to the arrangement, lightly stroking the petal of a lily, "Is it time for  _that_  already?" She slid her eye to him knowingly.

He shook his head and swallowed, placing his hand on the small of her back. "I don't see him. And there's no one here so far looks like they would even know who Frieza  _is."_ Bulma stood and joined him in surveying the room, drinking in the guests that most likely belonged to Chi Chi's family. The residents of Mt. Paozu never scratched Frieza's itch of domination, especially considering their economy wasn't exactly  _lucrative_. Vegeta had grown to know the kind of people that associated with the mob boss, and their pleasant mannerism and down home conversations certainly didn't fit the bill.

"Well," she took a deep breath and reached for his wrist, stealing a glance at his watch, "The wedding starts in about fifteen minutes. How about we grab our seats and wait for him? Maybe he'll show up while we sit."

Vegeta nodded and allowed her to guide him to their seats, taking the opportunity to soak in the atmosphere. He was surprised at the amount of land that Chi Chi's father owned; the rich, green grass seemed to stretch and wrap around the entire mountain itself. It reminded him of when he was younger and his mother would take him and Tarble to the park for a picnic. On certain days, especially in the beginning of the week, there would be no one there aside from the three - and occasionally his father. Those moments were when Vegeta felt most free, as if the world's possibilities were limitless. As if he could set sail to the vast regions of the park and explore new continents. Back when he still had a naïve veil over his eyes as to how the world  _actually_ operated. He bit down an uncomfortable feeling that anchored his stomach at the memory, not finding the energy to battle with ghosts today.

Bulma had suggested a row in the middle next to the aisle, excitedly saying how she wanted to get a good picture of Chi Chi as she walked down the runner. They barely made it to the back row of the white chairs before they were intercepted by Krillin, Tien and Yamcha. Vegeta ignored the other two, immediately scoffing his head at the scar faced man, bitterly remembering all of the reasons of why he deserved a good punch in the face. He felt Bulma tug his arm gently, but not even she could make him look a  _child_  in the eye as a man.

"Hey guys! Wow, you both look great! " Of course Krillin would be the first to speak, the man seemed uncomfortable with any bit of silence that Vegeta demanded. If he learned to keep quiet a lot more, Vegeta would probably be able to tolerate his presence. "It's a great day for a wedding, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is, thank you for the compliment Krillin." He could taste the suggestion in Bulma's words that he reply with something nice to Krillin too, or at least  _try_  to spark a conversation, but he didn't see the point. They were members of his orchestra, not friends to catch up on life with. "You guys look handsome too. I bet it must be nice for everyone to come together outside of rehearsals and concerts, wouldn't you agree Vegeta?" He grunted in reply, refusing to bite the line she tried to cast his way. He could feel the burn of her stare on his neck, could taste the acidic words she had for him on her tongue, but he imagined she wouldn't be inclined to him starting some sort of ruckus at her friend's wedding.

"Look, Vegeta, I won't act as if we didn't approach you without reason." One of the things Vegeta respected about Tien was his approach to problems. He wasted no time beating around the bush with cookie cutter words, and it always managed to grab Vegeta's attention. He turned to Tien slightly, staring at him out of the corner of his eye. Tien reached his arm around to Yamcha and pushed the man slightly forward, locking eyes his directly to Vegeta. " _Yamcha here_  has something he'd like to discuss with you."

Yamcha turned back to glare at Tien, obviously mumbling obscenities under his breath. He took a deep breath and slowly looked towards Vegeta, his lips straightened into a defensive line. His action hugged Vegeta's interest tightly; he felt particularly challenged that Yamcha could be so bold to speak to him first. He thought he made it undeniably clear that, as far as Vegeta was concerned, Yamcha didn't exist.

"Vegeta, look…" Yamcha took a deep breath and looked to Bulma, as if she were the saving grace of his nightmares, "I know that….that I acted like an asshole back then. I just…I mean you can't blame me for being upset, considering…. _you know_ …." He waved his finger back and forth between Vegeta and Bulma, swallowing roughly as if he were embarrassed.

"No," Vegeta narrowed his eyes and folded his arms, his face the expression of brick, "No I don't know. How about you explain it to me, Yamcha? The only thing I was aware of is that I was the conductor of musicians who had their shit together.  _Adults_ who left their problems at the door instead of staining the podiums with it.  _So_  I mean, you can't  _blame me_  for being upset the moment I realized that amongst the people slept a toddler. A toddler who threw a tantrum because he got his milk taken away by someone who refused to let it spoil." That earned him a harder tug on his arm from Bulma. He looked over to her and caught her sharp eyes glaring at him, making him feel like perhaps his pettiness was slightly unnecessary. Normally he wouldn't care  _how_  he came across, especially to those who were the equivalent to trash, but seeing her look at him like that made him think differently. It made his lips take on the properties of cement, and he stopped any other insults from climbing the ladder of his throat.

"I get it, Vegeta," Yamcha grit through his teeth before sighing deeply, running his fingers through his hair, "I was a dick. Okay? I was a world class dick. I let my problems with Bulma overshadow my job and my career. It was a shitty thing to do, and the last thing I deserve is a second chance from you. But…" He looked away and licked his lips, trying to phrase his sentiments exactly. After a pause, he turned back to Vegeta, displaying the most earnest eyes he'd ever seen the man possess..

"Music is my passion, okay? At the end of the day, past the physique, past the health fitness, it's all I have to make me happy. It's all I have  _now_  anyways," he quickly looked to Bulma sadly, but cleared his throat and repositioned his necktie, focusing back to Vegeta. "And I was stupid for taking it for granted and throwing it away, but please – _please—_ if you give me another shot, I won't fuck around this time. I'll really bring my A-game."

Vegeta narrowed his eyes towards him, dipping a toe in the waters of Yamcha's apology. "Why? Why should I? What purpose do you believe you serve in  _my_  orchestra? Why should I waste my time in giving you another chance?"

That made him quiet for a moment, the question smacking him in the face and rendering him frozen. Krillin and Tien looked to Yamcha with hopeful faces, their eyes begging the man to have a Midas touched tongue, one that would sway Vegeta to take him back. "Honestly," he said finally, "Nothing much. I, as an individual, do nothing for someone as talented as you; there's no great dynamic I bring to the table. But what I do have- and you know this Vegeta- is a passion that you don't find often. I have never been first chair-  _never-_  but I never gave up trying. Never walked out because Tien beat me. Never stopped asking for harder parts to prove myself. How many times since you've been the leader of an orchestra has someone quit because they couldn't move up the ranks?"

He had a point. One of the drawbacks of conducting an orchestra was the self-entitlement that some people exuded. The men and women who claimed to have the sound of music etched into their bones, only to show Vegeta that they were still infants waiting to be molded. They had potential, but they lacked the greatness they desperately believed they had. And when he wouldn't move them to first chair, when they lost the 'play-off' duels against a more talented player, they would swallow down their embarrassment and regurgitate foul words, accusing Vegeta of being deaf. Say that he was incompetent to call himself a master of the craft. Accuse him of favoritism. He wouldn't even bother to stop them as they trotted out the door, coddling their defeat with falsified pride. It  _had_ been a long time since he'd had to deal with that.

"Go on," he said impatiently, drumming his fingers against his forearm.

Yamcha took a deep breath and continued. "The only way I can heighten my talent is by working with the best. I know the best when I see it, Vegeta. You're... You're a musical genius, you know this. When I passed the audition for your orchestra, I knew I had struck liquid gold. It's an honor to say  _I'm_  playing for Vegeta N'Ouija. And I'll be passionate, I'll do whatever it is I have to do. I think that my passion is heard in the cello section, and I'm not saying I'm  _needed_ , but I know it isn't the same."

Another point on the scoreboard. Yamcha's whimsical talent and over the top drive was what made him stand out among the other musicians. Because he wanted to be first chair  _so_  badly, he knocked out every musical piece like a winning game of baseball. It made Vegeta  _want_  to keep him a second chair so that Yamcha always had something to strive for. Always had a point to prove. Would always play as if his life was on the line, never getting too comfortable in being 'the best'.

"What do you say, Vegeta?" Bulma's tone sounded reassuring, as if Yamcha's words were the golden ticket to coming back to the orchestra. He looked down to Bulma as she flashed him a radiant smile, nodding her head slowly. He could read her expression clearly:  _I forgave him, so you can too_. He swallowed and looked back to Yamcha, staring through the man's genuine façade to see their shared history. The times he gossiped too much instead of practicing. When he made loud, inappropriate jokes during break time, disturbing Vegeta as he sat in his office trying to recuperate. The extreme moments of PDA when he was dating Bulma. Yamcha didn't seem like the type to  _not_  have some woman dangling from his arm, so how long would it be before he came parading with the next girl? Vegeta had grown to enjoy the quiet of not having the man around, the distractions he provided to other players dwindling down to a minimum. Why the hell would he want that back?

Because…

"You won't even start third chair.  _You'll_  start in the back row with the bright eyed amateurs. I even think I'll put you next to Hercule so you can listen to his naive stories about how he's going to be the best in the  _entire_  orchestra, including myself. And maybe, if you're lucky, by this time next year I'll  _consider_  letting you challenge Tien to move up. And for you, rehearsal starts at 6:00 am. You can use the extra time to practice your scales and get a head start on the music. After all, you'll have a  _lot_  of catching up to do."

…Vegeta, if anything, was a smart musician. And he wouldn't let a talented musician slip through his fingers, especially one that was willing to grovel at his feet for redemption.

A wide smile spread across Yamcha's face as Krillin and Tien clapped their hands against his back, nodding their heads to Vegeta in gratitude. His face held no other expression other than one made of stone and he was already mentally demanding the moment expire. "Thanks, Vegeta. You won't regret it, I swear."

"I'd better not. Because if you pull some shit like this again, you'll be lucky to play on the street for nickels."

"You won't." Yamcha slid his eyes to Bulma, his smile dropping to an even line, and he slowly looked back to Vegeta. "Listen, Bulma's a real special woman, okay? So don't be an idiot like me, and you make sure you treat her good. Take care of her, alright?"

Vegeta's tongue burned with sharp knives that desperately wanted to cut Yamcha cheeks, but he thought of Bulma and buried his bladed words it in the spaces of his teeth. "My affairs are not your concern, and if you want to come back in my orchestra, you'd do well to remember that. But…I have never and  _will_  never be an idiot in anyone's case. That includes Bulma as well." He must have said the right words, because he could see her smile at him through his peripherals as she wrapped her arm around his.

Yamcha nodded and shoved his hands in the pocket of his slacks, stepping backwards away from them. "I'm glad to hear it. I hope you'll keep your word, Vegeta. Well, I've gotta go find my date, so I guess I'll see you guys at the reception?"

"I hope your date brought a shawl this time, Yamcha," Bulma's words were laced with mockery, and he didn't know what it was about. He did, however, get amusement from the shock that covered Yamcha's face at whatever bold message she was trying to send. "I heard it's going to get  _really_  cold tonight."

"Eh, I decided not to bring her today, actually. She's got some  _crazy_  expectations of how I'm supposed to treat her. Expensive expectations at that. "

"You don't say?" Vegeta let a chuckle slip at Bulma's obvious sarcasm. He had to admit that he  _thoroughly_  enjoyed the moments he got to witness her feistiness. "Well, hopefully your date today is a little more up your league."

Krillin and Tien snorted and Yamcha looked rather embarrassed, mumbling something about needing some water before scurrying away like a critter in fright. Vegeta's eyebrows raised at the peculiar scene, but it was Bulma who actually spoke his curiosities. "What was that about?"

"Let's just say," Krillin turned to leave as well, probably off to find Eighteen, "That his date looks  _really_  familiar." He looked at Bulma slyly and then to Tien, who shared the same amused expression. "Yamcha's really got a thing for blue hair." They followed quickly behind Yamcha, leaving an obvious accusation hanging in the air. Bulma shook her head as she stared after them, giggling under her breath. Vegeta felt her soft lips on his cheek in the next moment, and turned to find her beaming at him.

"I'm proud of you for being so nice, Vegeta. Thank you for handling that well."

"Tch," he blew out, wrapping his arm around her waist, "I hardly think sitting next to Hercule for an entire year is exactly  _nice_. I'm surprised he agreed to that. I can barely stand saying hello to Hercule. "

"Well he  _was_  right. He's passionate, remember? And I think whether you want to admit it or not, you miss having him play for you."

He absolutely would  _not_  admit that. Whatever regards Vegeta had for Yamcha would stay buried under his tongue. Besides, everyone had essentially gotten what they wanted, so there was no need to dwell on the sweetness of this favor. Not when there were more important issues to tackle. Not when the ceremony was minutes away from starting, and Nappa still hadn't arrived.

"Vegeta," Bulma squeezed his hand, "Let's get to our seats. People are starting to sit and I don't want to be towards the back or anything." He nodded robotically, not really paying attention to what she said, his thoughts already becoming tainted with his anxieties. As the pianist arrived and sat at her bench, his mind raced hurriedly, wondering when Nappa would arrive, and what news would he be arriving with?

And most importantly, would Nappa really possess the ability to make Vegeta's problems fade into the wind?

Bulma reached over and placed her hand on his thigh, pulling him out of his thoughts. He affixed his stare to her crystal eyes that brimmed with delight. He had to agree with her earlier statement; Vegeta  _did_  know what they said about people and weddings, that it sometimes brought the best out of them. He remembered attending a wedding once when he was a teenager, some colleague of his mother. His father decided at the last minute that he didn't want to go, so he and Tarble pretended to be her dates. If he tried hard enough, he could still taste the sweetness of her smile as they danced that evening, how she told him that they lifted her spirits completely. How good it felt for one evening to pretend that this enchanting evening was the foundation of his life. He placed his hand on top of Bulma's, deciding that for her sake, maybe he could pretend for a duration of today, too.

The soft lull from the piano picked up pace, taking on a livelier tune that signaled Kakarot's arrival. He strode around the floral decorated arbor, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other extended to a wave as he greeted his friends in the audience. The buffoon. At his own wedding and he couldn't even take  _that_  seriously. Vegeta hoped that maybe it was because he  _had_  done this already, that another ceremony was probably just an excuse to pig out on exciting dishes. He hoped that Kakarot wouldn't embarrass his wife by strutting so casually as if they were out to some cheap dinner. He would never to that to Bulma, in any event they  _were_  to get married.

Kakarot's brother, and the only groomsman, walked down the aisle runner, his face a lot more stern and serious than his younger brother's. As he walked near their seats, he looked towards them with a cold, startled expression, one that made Vegeta oddly curious. He couldn't have still been mad about Vegeta's drunken tangent at the bar all those months ago, could he? Vegeta didn't know much about Raditz, other than he was Kakarot's brother and Nappa's friend, but he certainly knew the long haired man had no right on judging  _him_ , if he dared. He remembered quite well hearing that Raditz had a turbulent past, but the older Son brother managed to straighten up and become a business owner- a responsible one at that.

Raditz let his glare linger on Vegeta's face for a few moments longer until he was forced to walk forward, and Vegeta felt his body burn in anger. Who the hell did that bastard think he was to look at  _Vegeta N'Ouija_  like he was some back alley drunkard? Bulma squeezed her fingers under his hand and leaned in closely, the blue that reflected off of her hair making him cease his heated stare at Raditz. "What was that about?" She whispered, looking back and forth between Raditz and Vegeta. "Do you personally know that guy?"

He clenched his teeth, upset more that her questioning confirmed that he wasn't losing his mind. Raditz stare was laced with a vendetta, one that Vegeta had missed the memo on. "Somewhat. He's a friend of Nappa and Kakarot's brother." He turned away from her and back to the arbor, just in time to see Raditz turn around and smile at his brother. He watched the man scan the eyes of the room, carefully smiling to some of the guests and bod his head in their direction. One by one, he tossed out his selective smiles until his eyes found Vegeta's, and his delicate smile smoothened out into a crisp line. He kept the eye contact for a tense amount of time, not breaking to even acknowledge Kakarot's son as he brought the new wedding bands to his father. A growl slithered deep in the pit of Vegeta's chest as he played  _whatever_  game this was with Raditz, not even bothering to take the time to blink. Raditz had a lot of goddamned nerve to think he could scare Vegeta into apologizing to him, especially not for some mild drunken antics. He probably served roughly fifty people a night at his busy bar; the fact that he remembered Vegeta that night was absolutely ludicrous.

" _What_  is his problem?" Bulma was growing pretty annoyed herself, if the sass that slept under her words had anything to say about it. He saw her glaring at him too, an aquatic storm brewing in the depths of irises. "All of these people in this audience and he can't stop looking over here. Did you piss him off or something?"

"No," he barked, returning his gaze back to Raditz, "Whatever the hell his problem is, it's got nothing to do with me." Raditz's sharp stare didn't go unmatched. Every layer to this ocular confrontation was met with the same venom, the same poison blasting from Vegeta's face. Suddenly Raditz seemed to give up on his mission, looking to his feet before meeting Vegeta again, his eyes a lot softer. His lips started to curl downwards, as if he were sorry about something. As if he were asking for a white flag to this unspoken war.

"That guy is  _strange_ ," Bulma mumbled, sitting back in her seat as Raditz finally broke the contact, "How the hell is he related to Goku?"

"Trust me," Vegeta whispered, feeling the edges of his anger soften like fresh butter, "They're  _definitely_  related. Don't credit Kakarot by thinking he's sane."

"I don't see him having a staring contest with you and then looking all sad about it-"

"Sssh!"

Vegeta turned around to shoot daggars into some older woman behind him, her stubby crinkled fingers pressed tight to her thin lips. She angrily pointed behind her to the start of the aisle runner where Kakarot's wife was standing. Next to him, Bulma squealed her consent as the woman began to walk, her face colorful with emotions as she looked to her husband. "She looks so beautiful," Bulma placed her hand over her chest, "Everything is so beautiful."

"Hmph." Vegeta couldn't help but to be transported back to the day in the wedding shop as he stared at Chi Chi, her long  _cream_  colored dress pooling around the back of her feet. "You could've gotten that white dress after all. I told you she wouldn't be wearing white."

"That would have been worse!" Bulma whispered, trying to keep her voice down to avoid being shushed again. "I made the right decision. Red is a good color on me, wouldn't you agree?" Vegeta, against his better judgement, allowed his eyes to slip over to her again, as if he needed a visual reminder. Cherries replaced his cheeks as he got a good look at how succulent she looked, and he quickly turned ahead of him to avoid getting himself too excited. As soon as his gaze was forward, he was met with the stare of Raditz again, the man looking nervous as he studied Vegeta. The anger that washed over him before returned with a vengeance as it began to pool in his belly, and he fought the urge to stand and ask Raditz what the hell his problem was. If it weren't for the priest starting to conduct the ceremony, he very well would have.

Raditz kept tossing his eyes back to Vegeta throughout the nuptials, quickly sneaking glances in between listening to Goku and Chi Chi's long speeches to each other. To the untrained eye it didn't appear as if he was breaking eye contact with him at all, but Vegeta caught hold of every brief glance, each one speaking a sentence that he couldn't figure the words to. He turned to see if Bulma had noticed, but she was too enamored by the supposed romance of the vow renewal. The priest declared them married for the second time in their lives and they kissed, signifying the end of this unnecessary ceremony. That was the moment that changed the course of the wedding's events, slowing down to microseconds in Vegeta's mind.

That was the moment that the guests, including Bulma, cheered in theatrics for the couple. That was the moment Raditz glared at him long and hard again until slowly nodding his head towards the beginning of the runway, his eyes shifting upwards. The moment where Vegeta turned around to where Raditz suggested he looked. The moment where, when he did, he found Nappa standing, undetected by the celebration of the crowd. Nappa looked sternly at Vegeta before sliding a ghost of a smile in, before nodding back to Raditz. Vegeta's eyes widened as realization swam over him.

Raditz. Fucking Raditz.

All of that staring… this entire time…

He was the key to the way out of Vegeta's ordeal.

oooOOOooo

_A/N_

_Wow, two chapters two days in a row? I must be crazy lol. But I kind of wanted to make up for being absent so long. Thank you to everyone who let me know that I'm doing something right here, it means a lot to me. I decided to split this into two chapters, so I'm sorry I lied when I said you'd get good ole Nappa this chapter. Normally I alternate between Vegeta's and Bulma's POV, but next chapter will be Vegeta centered. Unfortunately, you'll have to wait a bit. Nothing too crazy though, I promise._

_Please R &R if you liked this chapter! It's always appreciated!_

_Thanks friendos! Till next time!_


	22. Smoking Gun

_**Concerto Twenty-Two: Smoking Gun** _

**A/N: Whew! It's been awhile, hasn't it? Please forgive me, I've been caught up with work, art  
(I'm making my own digital pieces now!) video games (HAS ANYONE PLAYED PERSONA 5/BREATH OF THE WILD MY GOD!) and good ole' life stuff. Thank you for everyone who is still sticking around for this story, you guys are golden. A quick catch up from the last chapter: Vegeta and Bulma attended the second nuptials of Goku and Chi Chi, Raditz plays a staring contest with Vegeta, and Nappa shows up at the end and indicates that Raditz is the key to Vegeta's salvation from Frieza. Onwards to the next chapter! Also a warning for violent scenes and mentions of sexual abuse. **

oooOOOooo

The minty cool breeze of the night air wafted through the small cracks of the shed where Vegeta, Raditz and Nappa hurdled together, bringing the slight smell of liquor with it. Outside the thin walls, the lazy laughs of the guests accompanied the crickets' music, surprisingly still as loud and boisterous as it had been since Kakarot and Chi Chi locked lips for the second time officially. It was reaching the nine oclock hour and wine was still overfilling cups while the last remnants of wedding cake were being scarfed down drunken throats. It was an easy distraction, Vegeta thought as he sipped from his own champagne flute. That way, no one noticed the three burly men who sauntered off to the shed less than ten minutes ago.

Raditz sat on top of a bundle of hay, his elbows resting on top of his knees as his chin hung low, a pathetic expression on his face. Nappa stood to the side of him, looking more like a bodyguard than a spectator for whatever the hell this was. Vegeta could barely stomach the tension in the air, not appreciating how these two were making him wait for this 'resolution', of sorts. His eyes swayed from Raditz, to Nappa, and back to Raditz again, silently screaming at them to stop wasting his fucking time.

Nappa cleared his throat, able to read the irritation in his nephew's eyes. He looked down to Raditz with somewhat of a father-like stare, nodding his head before returning his attention back to Vegeta. "Well," he said to Raditz, although his coal eyes never left Vegeta's, "We're all here, aren't we? No need to keep the silence running further."

Raditz opened his mouth to speak, but it was Bulma's infectious laugh that crept in from outside, letting Vegeta know she was full of spirits, the body and the ale alike. Hearing her being so jolly, especially when the mood around him was anything but, tempted him to join her and taste the sweet red concoction that danced on her lips. For a split second, the idea of being around a bunch of dolts he didn't care for didn't sound so disgusting, if it meant that she would share that laugh with him, and maybe even a little more. But the streak of lightning that birthed in Raditz eyes catapulted him back to his current reality, and the heavy anchor of anxiety in his belly pulled down again.

"I don't know where to even begin, Vegeta. I know the beginning's always a good start, but this is one of those stories where _no_ part will leave ya feeling satisfied." Raditz sighed and leaned back against the hay, rubbing the sharp point of his chin. "I already know what I'm about to say to you is going to upset you, and it may make you want to kill me, but all I ask of you is that you keep a sort of understanding to yourself, you get me?"

Vegeta had to swallow the rough words that regurgitated in his throat, knowing that the vile that would accompany his phrase had the potential to change Raditz's mind about this conversation entirely. So instead he chugged the rest of his wine and leaned against the wall of the barn, mumbling out a quick, "What sort of understanding?"

"The kind where you remember that, in a lot of ways, I'm just like you. Just a guy trying to better than his old man, okay?"

Vegeta suddenly didn't feel so good. It could've been the reflection of himself that he saw at that very moment in Raditz eyes. Could've been the hint of sadness that shone over Raditz' features. Or it could've been the umpteenth glass of wine he drank in the past hour. Whatever it was, his face felt increasingly hot as he barked out, "What the hell does that mean?"

Raditz held his glare for a moment before resting his chin to his chest, running his fingers down his long, raven mane. He glanced up quickly at Nappa before wetting his lips and staring back down to the floorboards. "All right, Vegeta, in order to make you understand, I guess I'll just start from _that_ day. I can't see a more fitting beginning to a story than to take you to the hell I was in."

oooOOOooo

Fresh flowing rainwater was always something Raditz envied. It was like the sky was cleansing itself of all the bad muck humans put into it on a daily basis. It cried and it threw its tantrum, and humanity was forced to deal with wet buildings and ruined plans. It was as if time stopped for Earth as it unleashed its sorrows, as if it screamed, "No more! I can't take it!" As if rain was the begging of something better, something that would help more than it hurt.

Raditz wished that he was the rain.

Droplets raced down the car window as he studied them, apprehensive to look in front of him. Instead he watched the tears from Earth's eyes taunt him, asking him what he was doing and why, reminding him of his own desires and dreams.

A voice cleared to his left and on cue he turned, looking directly into the eyes of a man whose face mirrored his own, only older and more clipped around the edges. "Raditz," he spoke softly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting into a smile, "Did you hear what Zarbon said?"

Zarbon scoffed and Raditz turned his attention to him, just in time to see the silver medallions shimmy from the bottom of his pants as he crossed one leg over the other. He folded his arms and glared at Raditz, running his tongue over his teeth. "Oh _please_. I didn't realize that he needed to be told _twice_. Are you a boy or are you a dog?"

"Come now, Zarbon," a fat creature that Raditz recently learned was named Dodoria folded his arms behind his head, playing with a toothpick between his teeth, "Don't be so hard on the boy. He just finished sucking from his mother's teet, rest her soul. Maybe we should tell Frieza he isn't ready yet, that he needs more training." A deceptive smile enhanced his ugly face, one that clearly wasn't getting enough oxygen with his pink cheeks and sagging skin.

"Eww," Zarbon threw his long ponytail over his shoulder, "That's so _boring_. What else can training do for a dog? He either learns his tricks or he doesn't, but I don't keep useless mutts around. If he can't handle it, perhaps we should put him down."

"There's no need for that," the man sitting next to Raditz hurriedly said, barely containing the panic in his voice. "Raditz is good and ready for a job, I made sure of it myself. He may be young, but he's still a man. A capable one, at that."

"Psssh, the boy can barely drink," Dodoria glugged a glass of scotch down greedily at his words, "How the hell can I trust him with a first class order from Frieza?"

"I'm twenty-two, I can drink just fine," Raditz was met with a small slap on the thigh from the man, discreet enough that he was sure Zarbon and Dodoria hadn't noticed. "Plus my father is right, I'm more than ready for this."

" _Sure_ ," Zarbon poured himself a glass of scotch, throwing his sunglasses over his face despite the weather and the fact they were inside of a limo, "Well if you aren't, it'll be on your _daddy's_ head, isn't that right Bardock?" He lifted his glasses for a moment as he smirked, slowly pressing the drink to his lips.

Bardock huffed but said nothing, instead turning to his son with determined eyes. "Remember what we talked about, Raditz. In and out, no questions, no conversations. This guy owes Frieza money and we're just here to send a message. The grim reapers, remember?"

Raditz slowly nodded, although his belly brewed with uncertainty. This wasn't the life Raditz wanted, this wasn't something he'd want to be doing on his free time. Working for Frieza, the fucking scum of the earth? He wanted to vomit just from the thought of it. But… but if he didn't agree, then Frieza would've come after Goku. He would've taken his brother right out of college and tortured him and his girlfriend until Goku agreed to work for him. That was what Bardock said to him, anyways, when he sat Raditz down a few months ago and told him Frieza was interested in having him join his team. Said that he needed younger workers to push his product. Workers who had the means and popularity to make him more money. Said that he heard about Raditz wanting to open up a bar. He didn't even question his father when he gave him the money for the property, didn't ask who it came from or why. But now he wished that he did. He so desperately wished that he did.

"Good," Bardock said with barely even a smile, "This is your first mission, and if you do a good job, it won't be your last. You'll get a good cut of the check, enough to help you really get your bar up and running the way you'd like. I'm not going to put a lot of pressure on you, but you have to know how importan—"

"Oh shut the hell up with these 'daddy and me' talks." Zarbon poured his empty glass full of scotch again, swirling it around in his ice as he frowned in their direction. "If the boy doesn't understand that by now than what use does Frieza have for him? What use do _we_ have for him?"

Raditz wanted to tell Zarbon that he fucking understood with the innuendoes already. He was replaceable, expendable, a toy that could easily be broken with no tears to dry on any of their faces. Zarbon didn't need to keep rubbing it in, but Raditz knew his kind. They needed to be smug little assholes to compensate for something, only Zarbon's bark was just as good as his bite. Raditz being 'trained' by him and Dodoria for the past month spoke highly of how dangerous they both were . His stomach hurt to think of how much stronger Frieza had to be for Zarbon and Dodoria to be his lapdogs.

"Now as I was saying boy - and you'd better pay attention this time, I refuse to repeat myself thrice -, the job today is a special one. To keep it brief, we have two targets we need to rattle. This doesn't need to be a messy mission, I'd prefer to not get dirty today because this suit is _new_. I strongly suggest to tie them up, maybe slap them around a bit. And really ransack the place, take any and everything of value. Frieza takes his money in all _sorts_ of ways. When the man of the house shows up, he'll see that we aren't playing any more of his games. Frieza's patience is really running out and his money is due."

"And," Dodoria interjected, polishing off his third glass of scotch, "if the lady's present, we leave her to me. It's been awhile, you know."

Raditz felt bile rise to the back of his throat. Are these…are these the kind of men that his father worked for? Ones who asked that things don't go "messy" and talk about the gross things they want to do to a woman? Dodoria studied his face long and hard as he chuckled away at his demands, his beady eyes pressed into Raditz soul. Testing his resolve, he guessed, to see if he was worth the trouble of calling a 'coworker'. Raditz neither bit his bait nor spat it out, instead turning his attention back to the raindrops sliding down the window.

"No one cares about that shit, Dodoria," Zarbon scoffed, leaning fully back against the leather, "You're the only one that wants to take things there. I'm disgusted to know you."

"Suit yourself, though you'd be saying differently if his _son_ was the guy we're after."

Zarbon perked up then, showing Raditz that both of these men were heartless creatures who didn't deserve the air they breathed. His lips curved upwards as he took a long sip of his drink, bathing Dodoria in his lustful, psychotic eyes. "He _is_ devilishly handsome. And you're right, I _would_ be saying differently."

It was too late, Raditz knew, to jump out of the moving limousine and call off his deal. He would have to plan for certain death if he did that, because he swam too deep with the sharks to go back to the shore. He turned to his father, anger burning through his eyes, a sort of defiance underneath the rock solid face he had been trained to sport. "I know," Bardock mouthed, before turning his attention back to the front of the limo, silently demanding that Raditz do the same.

oooOOOooo

This house was the biggest home Raditz had ever seen in his life.

He remembered coloring himself impressed when Bardock had bought a two story home in the quiet suburbs of South City. Thought it was better than the two story flat he shared with his family all of his life. But this…this was beyond a silly suburban home. It was a museum, if he had to label it correctly, one that was drawn in books he had seen as a child.

"Alright," Zarbon adjusted his glasses and blazer, reaching for the door handle, "Let's make this quick, I have dinner plans in an hour." Dodoria mumbled something under his breath while Bardock said nothing, moving about like a robot Raditz didn't recognize. He wanted to vomit.

He watched in what seemed to be slow motion as Zarbon kicked down the door and revealed a kitchen, once again displaying how brutally strong he was. Dodoria and his father marched behind him like ducks in a row, and Bardock threw him a look over telling him to get in line. Raditz did as was silently instructed, choosing to step out of his body for a moment instead of living. He hoped he'd be able to sleep afterwards. Hoped he'd still have a shred of humanity in him.

A shrill scream pierced from the room Zarbon stepped into, and by the time Raditz cleared the corner, the butt of Zarbon's gun had met a woman's temple, her middle aged body falling against the couch. Her eyes stared at him with the sort of fear that made Raditz feel dizzy, and he instantly felt bad for her. _If you find yourself getting too emotionally involved, dehumanize them. They aren't people, just dolls. Dolls that you have to throw around a bit, that's all._ That was the advice his father had given him when Raditz asked him how stomached it. When Bardock finally told Raditz just where he'd gotten the money, just how he'd bought the house, just why he'd firmly put Goku in college.

But looking at her eyes, her black eyes that speckled with just a hint of honey, there was no way Raditz could dehumanize her.

Blood spilled down the side of her face, along with her tears, mixing into an opaque pool of coral around her neck. Zarbon bent down low to look at her, grabbing the back of her head and yanking her close to him. "Don't scream love, or I'll have to do that again, okay? Nod if you understand, and know that I hate being lied to."

She closed her mouth shut and nodded once, fresh tears spilling out as she shook. "Perfect, there's an obedient one. Now I need you to tell me in a calm voice if there's anyone else home. And you should know that we're going to search every nook and cranny here, so there's no need to protect them."

Raditz had to turn to look elsewhere, unable to tolerate the fragile way this woman looked. Pictures upon pictures of her and what he assumed to be her family were decorated along the walls, smiling faces and expensive clothes staring back at him behind glass. It was too much, seeing the contradiction of everything around him. He turned to look at his father, but the man stared past him at the walls as if he had just seen a ghost. Raditz threw him a raised eyebrow, but Bardock was struck by whatever he'd seen and ignored him. "Zarbon," he spoke, his voice deep with…concern? "Zarbon…what the hell is going on here?"

"Don't ask me questions you fucking ape," Zarbon threw a deadly glare at Bardock, his eyes more distant and cold than Raditz remembered. He turned back to the woman, a small smile plastering in the spot where his annoyance once slept. "Now, is there anyone in this home other than you?"

She nodded slowly, trying to contain the bubble of a sob that spilled over her lips. "P-please don't hurt my boy. I'll give you whatever you want, anything you want, just please...not my baby boy."

"Oh you poor thing," Zarbon reached out and stroked the side of her face that was painted with her blood, "Where is this boy of yours? Won't you take me to him?"

"P-please? I h-have money, my husband has a vault in the basement, I c-can get the code-"

"Well, you try to be nice…" Zarbon forcefully yanked her from the seat, and if her yelp had anything to say about it, Raditz assumed that he pulled the arm loose from its socket. "Take me to your brat or _I'll_ find him. And I can't promise you he'll be alive when I bring him back down here." She cried at his threat but choked down her sob, instead nodding and beginning to lead the way. "Dodoria, come with me. You two start gathering goods."

Raditz watched them walk away and when he could no longer see Dodoria's back, he pulled on the sleeve of his father's black coat. "Dad what the hell was that? Why did you look like that? What went wrong?"

Bardock's face fell slack with apology for a brief moment before he picked it back up again, shaking his head as he walked past his son. "I shouldn't have dragged you into this Raditz. I…I knew Frieza couldn't be trusted, but I hoped he wouldn't be this cruel." He tossed Raditz a plastic bag that sat nearby, and for reasons he couldn't understand, refused to look him directly in the face. "After this mission….I'll talk with Frieza. I'll buy your freedom, I don't care how much it costs, but you and I are done with him."

Raditz began to fill the bag with random valuables, not paying particular attention to what he was throwing in the bag exactly. "What…did I do something wrong? I-I know that I don't exactly _like_ what's going on, but I tried to fix my face-"

"Look it's not that, all right? Just…we're not safe, Raditz. I don't suspect any of us are, save for Dodoria and Zarbon. And I don't know what kind of sick message Frieza is trying to send me, but I won't put that dagger in your back."

"Dad, I really don't understand—"

Raditz was cut off by Dodoria's heavy footsteps, his arm dragging a teenage boy on the ground behind him. He was a defiant boy, Raditz had to admit, kicking and wailing about as Dodoria drug him to the living room. He tossed the boy up as if he were a sack of flour, slamming him into the couch before punching him in the center of his face. Blood poured from where his fist withdrew, and the boy cradled his broken nose in pained screams.

"Shut your wailing boy or I'll punch you again!" Dodoria hit him anyways, his fist connecting to the side of the boy's jaw and causing him to topple over on the couch. _Be a man, take it like a man_ , Raditz wanted to say, but the hypocrisy of his words made his tongue go limp.

"Please don't hurt him!" His mother cried, trying to free herself of Zarbon's grip to get to him, but Zarbon held her back with ease. "Please! What do you want from us!?"

"Ding, ding, ding!" Zarbon smirked, tossing her to the floor as if she were a stuffed animal. "There's the million dollar question: what _do_ we want? For being an obedient little lass, I suppose I'll tell you! Your husband owes my boss a _lot_ of money. And quite frankly, he's getting really impatient with all of his excuses. Next week, next month…it's growing old. So now we do things our way, by harboring collateral. "

"Take our money! Take it! I don't care about it, I just want my boy safe! Take the house, take the cars, take whatever you'd like!"

" _Puh_ , you think this chump change is enough to pay your silly little spouse's debts? This is only a fraction of what he owes Frieza." Dodoria threw his head back and laughed, scooping the boy up by the collar and throwing him on the floor next to his mother. The boy coughed from hitting the floor so roughly, picking his head up to look at his mother with widened eyes.

"I have more money in my bank! I can ask around, I'll do whatever it takes!" She backed away from Zarbon defensively, trying to fold her arms across her chest. "I'm begging you for my life!"

"Beg, don't beg, it really makes no difference to me. The price has already been put on your head, darling. Frieza tried to be nice to your husband, offered to take his debts away if your eldest worked for him. But he's taking too long with _that_ answer as well. How polite do we have to be before we stop asking?"

Raditz watched her face fall, her eyes understanding just what they were there for. It wasn't about the money, it wasn't about the debt. Frieza wanted to send this man a message that he'd do whatever it took to get his debts squared, even if that meant harming those closest to you. Is that…is that what Bardock meant?

"I say we wait for daddy to show up," Dodoria stepped over the boy, unbuckling the belt of his pants, "What good is a party if the guest of honor isn't here, hmm? Besides, I can think of some fun things to do in the meantime, wouldn't you say, Mrs. N'Ouija?"

 _N'Ouija_. The clarity of the situation hit Raditz like a freight train, and he whipped his head around to look at his father. _N'Ouija_. He'd heard that name before. Had read it in the papers, had heard his brother talk about some great up and coming musician. Had heard Bardock say the name belonged to his coworker. Said his coworker used to be as good musically wise as his prodigy son. His coworker that also worked for Frieza.

Bardock couldn't meet his stare. He kept his eyes focused on the scene in front of them, but the way he clenched his jaw confirmed Raditz's suspicions. That's what he meant. None of them were safe. Frieza's own men weren't safe from his ire.

Raditz felt his body go entirely cold.

"Hey, new boy, Raditz was it?" He snapped back into reality, the loud cries from the boy on the ground rattling his ears. Zarbon snapped his fingers to get his attention, his fingers rubbing against his temple with irritation. Dodoria hovered over Mrs. N'Ouija, beginning to turn her over on her back. "Get rid of that annoying brat, would you? I don't want to get my suit dirty and he refuses to listen to me."

The boy looked up at Raditz, his eyes wide with fear and mouth unable to stop crying out for his mother. He watched as Zarbon walked over to him, placing a gun in his fingers, a sneaky smile on his face. "Time to prove your worth," he sang before heading back to the couch and sitting down, propping his leg up for a show. He waved at Raditz to hurry it up, and Raditz felt the sickness brewing in his belly and rising in his throat.

No…No…

"Raditz." Bardock whispered.

"Shut up Bardock! If you interfere again, I'll tell Frieza the gun slipped in my fingers when I blow your son's head off! Now then, Raditz, if you wouldn't mind to _hurry the fuck up._ "

He couldn't think anymore. Just screaming. Screaming from the boy, from his mother. Screaming from whoever just entered the house. Mr. N'Ouija? Screaming from the mother as Zarbon punched Mr. N'Ouija to the ground. Screaming from the boy as Dodoria ripped her dress. Screaming from Zarbon to hurry up. Raditz wanted them all to be quiet.

Just.

Shut.

Up.

He looked at the gun. Looked at the boy. Mind was spinning. Heart was racing. A decision that needed to be made.

So in a frenzied mind, he aimed.

oooOOOooo

There was nothing around him but red.

No matter what he tried to focus on, no matter what his mind said, he only saw the crimson shade. It stained his skin, it stained Raditz's face. And it stained his hands as he gripped them around his neck.

"You…you bastard!" Vegeta was seething, he could barely think straight. The fire that brewed in his belly spilled from every inch of his skin until he could only breathe flames. He was surprised that the skin on Raditz's neck didn't combust into flames, with the way his fingers burned. He would set him on fire, he would claim his vengeance. Even if he couldn't get ahold of Frieza, Raditz would do. Gods be damned if there were witnesses, there's no way in hell Vegeta would pass up on this opportunity for revenge-

"Vegeta, stop!" Nappa's calloused hands doused Vegeta's inferno grip, forcing his strength to dissolve. Raditz sucked in a precious gasp of air, and it was only then that Vegeta realized he didn't know how long his hands had been around his neck. Had it been when he confirmed that Dodoria had defiled his mother? That his father had come much too late? That Raditz, the son of a bitch, had fired the gun on Tarb-

"Vegeta, let go of him. Let him finish the story, please!"

"Let me go, Nappa!" He could feel the spit that cornered his mouth begin to droop from his lip. He didn't want to listen to _anything_. For what? To hear in more detail how this coward _watched_ his family die? Had participated in it? "You dare bring this scum in my presence _knowing_ what he did?! He killed my brother!"

"I-I didn't pull the trigger." Raditz had managed to find the oxygen to speak, but for Vegeta it didn't matter. In his mind, Raditz had already been tried and convicted, and he elected himself the executioner. There was no redemption from that. "I swear to y-you, Vegeta! I didn't kill him."

"Liar!"

"No, Vegeta, he isn't lying. Just…just let him go. Listen to the man; put some trust in me and listen to him." Vegeta managed to be led on by Nappa's persuasion, releasing the grip on Raditz slightly enough for the man to swallow heaps of air. He turned to Nappa slightly, his mind still foggy mix of confusion and rage. "It's alright, Vegeta. I wouldn't compromise you like this. You know that I wouldn't or else you wouldn't be here."

Nappa had a point, he quickly thought, although a strong part of him wanted to negate it. Nappa had always done right by him, including the fact of getting Raditz to come here in the first place. But he was just so _angry_. He wanted to kill him, didn't want to listen. Didn't want to hear Nappa out, didn't want to sit here and-

_What would Bulma think of you if she saw you like this?_

His hands loosened like jelly then, a sheer panic running through his chest. Bulma. He hadn't even considered her. She was a pebble-stone throw away, her laughter still coating the night air with radiance. She could've walked into the barn at that moment and see the monster of the man she thinks she loves.

He quickly stepped backwards, giving himself ample room from Raditz. He still didn't trust the man, still couldn't blink away the red hue around the edges of his vision, although the color had been infiltrated by a bright shade of blue. He couldn't break the hardening glare he was giving Raditz, but….but perhaps he would hear some sort of answer Nappa insisted he had.

Raditz grabbed his throat and coughed violently, looking Vegeta in the eyes directly. He was a man of substance, Vegeta would give him that, but the longer they stared at each other, the more Vegeta had to quiet the bubbling rage that grew in his belly.

"I…I didn't kill him, Vegeta. I couldn't do it." Raditz still clung to the tender meat of his neck, now decorated with angry red lines from Vegeta's thick fingers. He gathered himself back on top of the bundle of hay, massaging his neck in the process. "I'm not a killer, I can't be. My father might have been able to do it, and maybe I convinced myself that I could too, but in all actuality that's not who I am."

"If you didn't kill Tarble," Vegeta decided he would play this game, "then explain how I saw his _body on the stretcher_. Tell me why he wasn't moving under that white sheet."

"The kid had spirit, lots of spunk if I've ever seen it," Raditz looked away then, as if the memory was like a ghost gnawing at his skin, "He hopped up despite being flung around like a rag doll and knocked Dodoria off of your mother. At first, I thought maybe this kid could at least take him out. I aimed my gun, I won't lie to you, but I don't think I could have ever fired that thing. I called it good luck on my behalf, that maybe the boy would win against Dodoria. But…but Dodoria acted as if he was just a bug. He punched the kid, harder than he did before. Except this time…he didn't stop."

That was a tough pill for Vegeta to swallow. He…he had hoped that his family was taken out quickly. A gunshot, something from behind. He didn't want to see their faces, didn't want to know exactly the details of their deaths. He had heard whispers, had heard rumors, but never confirmed anything. To know that Tarble, the boy who swallowed stars for a living, was beaten so savagely until he died….

Vegeta felt like his knees were going to buckle.

"After that…I couldn't work for Frieza anymore. Turns out, my old man felt the same. He couldn't shake what Frieza had done, how he had put the hit out on your dad so easily after he worked with him for _years_. I couldn't wrap my head around it, that sort of crime for money? For a drug lord like Frieza? It didn't make sense. I felt like there was…something more." He licked his lips as he brought his gaze to Vegeta, his eyes despondent.

"So why aren't you dead, Raditz? If you had refused to work for Frieza like you claim, how are you _here_ talking to _me_?"

Raditz was mum for a second, as if he was trying to gather his thoughts. It was coming, Vegeta deduced, the real reason Raditz had for being here. Truly Nappa had a better solution than to bring a man here to talk about the dead, right?

"About a month or so goes by. Frieza hadn't requested me or my dad for any hits, and I was growing pretty worried. Every day I felt like I had a target on my back, like Zarbon or Dodoria spun some wild tale to him that made him plot our deaths. My old man disappeared for a bit, told me he had something to take care of. Goku was still away at college, so I had nothing to distract me from my anxiety except maintaining my bar. I thought…maybe that it was all behind us. That Frieza, I don't know, _magically_ forgot that we even existed. Pretty stupid, huh?" Raditz laughed like nothing was funny, rubbing his hands together. Vegeta recognized that, the concealing of emotion. Something internally was about to attack Raditz like a wild animal, and it finally made Vegeta feel like there was some truth to his words.

"Then my old man comes back. He comes in my bar with this tape and USB drive. He looks like a crazed man, like a man who went to search for the meaning of life itself. And that's when he tells me that he's found a way to take Frieza out for good. Get him off the streets so that way he'll never do this again. My dad had spent several weeks looking for holes in Frieza's 'loyal' army. Ones who'd be willing to talk to him, spill on secrets that could get him locked up for years. He found a few, ones that held onto photos and evidence and went into hiding, afraid that their plan wouldn't work and Frieza would kill them. My dad managed to earn their trust and took it off of their hands. He had everything he needed, he said, to get Frieza to let us go. He was going to blackmail him, scare him into forgiving our debts. But," Raditz squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out whatever memory that swam into his mind.

"But it didn't work. Frieza killed him, right there in his office. Destroyed the evidence, spat on my father's hard work. I…I didn't even have the heart to tell Goku that our father was killed. I told him he died in an auto accident."

Vegeta watched as Raditz tried to gather himself, and realized that Nappa indeed did not lead him astray. Raditz had something taken from him too, and also had a reason for vengeance. "So what exactly is Frieza's game plan?" He asked curiously, one of many of his burning questions.

"Well, our favorite guy Frieza has been pulling this stint with his army for years. He searches the streets like some creep for men to work for him, and he tricks them into owing him a large debt. For my father, it was the money to get us a house after my mother died. We were going to be homeless, and here comes Frieza with this gracious gift. And bam! My father has to work off his debts, part gratitude and part obligation.

He tricked me by 'loaning' my father the money to start my bar. I just took it like a fucking fool, like a kid in a goddamned candy store. So when my father finally told me that I had to work it off, I realized the old bastard tricked me too. I wondered why my dad would set me up like that, and then I figured out he had no choice. Frieza always wants better, better, better. He wants to make sure that he stays at the top by creating an empire beneath him. I had already made a name for myself with my bar, I'm the perfect worker to get his product out there more."

"So what does this have to do with me?"

"Well, that's how he got me and my father involved. Your father is a different story. From what I've heard, Vegeta N'Ouija Sr. and Frieza had always been in cohorts. I'm not sure if you knew, but apparently your dad started to gamble his money away, and good ole Frieza stepped in. Your dad quit his musical career to follow Frieza around, convinced he could be a Zarbon or a Dodoria. But that was where Frieza lost his interest. Without his celebrity, he was just another ego around. So Frieza set his eyes on _you_ , the second coming of the musical scene himself." Raditz held his arms out towards him graciously, emphasizing the god stature Vegeta had created for himself.

"Do you realize what that meant for someone like Frieza? A man who's appeal can stretch across the world? You're a walking money bag in his eyes, and opportunity to make him an international success. But you apparently refused, and Frieza grew bored with asking you and arranged this hit on your family to send you a message. Now you owe him the money, and he'll take everything away from you until you agree to work for him. And one day you'll bore him, and he'll take your children too. I'm _not_ free from Frieza. He doesn't ask me to do jobs other than to sell his drugs inside my bar. I hate doing it, but it's the only way to keep me and brother safe. His family too. I never asked about my father's death and that's what keeps me alive, from what I believe, feigning my own ignorance."

The acidity rose in Vegeta's stomach, making him nauseous with anger. "Your father was killed and the evidence destroyed. So why does this information even matter? How the hell can you help me other than tell me stories?"

Raditz said nothing, bearing his eyes into Vegeta's as he fiddled around in his pocket. He stood and walked to him, his fists concealing something. He grabbed Vegeta's hand and placed two items inside: a USB drive and a small cassette tape. "Frieza didn't destroy the only evidence. I made a copy it, just on a whim. I'm glad I did, because clearly my dad's idea didn't work. I won't lie to you, Vegeta, I've been a coward about this. I could've saved you this entire headache and taken him down myself…but truth was I was scared. I kept thinking about Goku and Chi Chi and Gohan…there were too many risks. Hopefully you can be the bigger man here and do what's right. What's necessary. I can't atone for my sins to you or your family, but maybe in this small way, I can ease a bit of your burdens

Vegeta opened his palm to what seemed to be like the world in his hands. A smoking gun that pointed at him as equally as it did Frieza. He couldn't entirely blame Raditz for not following through with this, besides, Vegeta himself didn't exactly know who Frieza had in his army. The police commissioner himself could be a pawn, and it was such a big risk to take. And more importantly, he now had other targets to consider outside of himself.

Bulma.

"That woman you're seeing," Nappa interjected, almost with clairvoyance, "is someone Frieza will toy with if you're not careful. If you don't strike while the pan's hot, she could easily be another head on his spike. I know you care for her, I can just tell the way your eyes soften whenever we talk about her. Consider her in all of this, okay?"

Vegeta looked up from his palm and out of the barnyard to the table Bulma was sitting at. She was laughing with Chi Chi, her arms dancing through the wind, her smile bright. She looked so free, so alive, so beautiful. His heart broke, thinking of her not always looking so happy. Of her not being alive. He liked to think he had a part in that, in the way her skin glowed even under the blanket of night, in the way her eyes lit up as if fireflies existed in her irises. He liked to think that she reserved he places in her smile for him.

What could he do? What if by saving his own soul, he jeopardizes hers?

He could never live though that, in any plane of existence he lived on.

oooOOOooo

"Oh man this air conditioning feels so good!" Bulma kicked off her heels as she entered the living room of the loft, sighing in satisfaction as her feet touched the cold tile. It still felt surreal to be living in a place that she once called home, but having her around made it easier to adjust. She fit here, just as equally as he. "It's still pretty humid out for it to be late at night; they certainly picked a good day to get married."

Vegeta removed his tie and placed it on a nearby table, studying the back of Bulma's head as she stretched. His fingers roamed his pockets for the drive and tape, his stomach twisting into knots as he felt them.

"Hey, Vegeta? You've been really quiet since the reception. Did everything go okay? Did Nappa and Goku's brother help you out?" Bulma turned to face him, her sapphire eyes sparkling with concern. It bothered him, to see her looking so dismal for his sake. It was a stark contradiction to her mega-watt smile back at the barn.

He hadn't said anything to her yet because he didn't know what to do. He barely knew how to process what Raditz had told him, had barely begun to digest the intimate details of what happened. Had barely begun to stop blaming himself for not being able to be there for them. To protect them.

_How are you going to protect Bulma?_

She walked towards him, those pouty lips of hers turned downwards, ready to hear the obvious bad news that she was sure he had to give. But what could he tell her? He promised her the truth, but he wasn't prepared for the burn the words would leave on his tongue.

"It's okay," she coddled, smiling softly for his sake, her tone patient, "You can tell me. We can talk about these things."

He nodded, knowing that secrets only existed to destroy them, not sustain them. "Raditz does have something to help me out. Evidence, he says, on Frieza that could get him off the streets for good."

"Okay," she blew a breath of air, suddenly sounding optimistic, "That's good news, right? Why…why do you look troubled then?"

That was the part Vegeta couldn't get out.

It was hard, after all, looking into her perfect face, full of emotion for him that he didn't understand, and burden her delicate features with his fragile emotions. She would call him a fool, call him a coward for not doing the right thing and ridding the problem that was Frieza immediately. She would think less of him for being so on the fence about it. She would mock him for not taking vengeance for his family at the witching hour.

Of course she would….and who could blame her?

Vegeta slept on his pain for many nights for so many years. He tasted the bitter aroma of hurt and anger until it bled from his gums, until it captivated his speech. His entire view of the world began the day he had to tell his family goodbye, the day he realized his father was a no good ingrate who didn't care about the betterment of his family. He and Raditz shared that in common, except Bardock had tried to do good in the end. All Vegeta's father did in the end was…die.

And here he stood like a broken man, torn over what to do with the final lock on Frieza's freedom.

"Vegeta…"

"I don't know what to do." He whispered, feeling like a bird of truth flew from his lips. It was an admittance that broke the dam on his denial, and he couldn't stop himself. "I…I can't figure out what to do. I'm a coward."

"Hey, you're not a coward. What do you need help deciding what to do? I can help you, Vegeta."

"And then what?" Vegeta couldn't focus on her words, couldn't focus on the hands that lay upon his cheeks, at the way her thumbs massaged his skin. He could only focus on the deep shade of blue of her eyes and his rattled brain. "What happens if it's not enough? What if I can't protect you? I couldn't protect my own family. I-I…I wasn't there to save them."

There it was.

Bulma was looking at him strangely, her eyes wider than before. What…what was wrong with his face? Why did she wipe something away under his eye? What was on her finger? Vegeta put his own hand on his cheek, and it came away wet.

He…he was crying?

Because he was guilty. Because he was to blame.

How dare he shed years for a storm he helped brew.

His knees buckled as the weight of his words washed over him, the veil over his eyes lifting. That's what he couldn't shake. His anger at Raditz wasn't what plagued him, nor was it the threat Frieza currently held over his life. More than anything, Vegeta felt guilty. His mother, his brother…even his father…they were killed because of his own shortcomings. They were killed because he didn't want to work for Frieza, Raditz said so himself. If only he wasn't such a coward, if only his damned pride hadn't gotten in the way.

His family might still be here.

"No matter what it comes back to, it's my fault." He slid to his knees, desperately grabbing onto the fabric of Bulma's dress, wanting to find solace in her. He clung to her waist, wrapping an arm about her middle and pressing his forehead into her stomach. Her hands found home in his hair, trying to soothe him, trying to make him calm. But it didn't work, not when his hot tears made his vision too blurry and his head too foggy. "I wasn't there! I was too busy arguing with my own father and not listening to him about working with that asshole in the first place! And what Raditz told me…What Raditz told me confirmed that it's my fault! What kind of man am I? How can I protect you, Bulma? How can you trust your life into the hand of an inferior?"

He could feel the fabric from her dress wet with his own tears, and despite how foolish he felt, he couldn't stop. She was warm, like a blanket to soothe a whiny infant, and it made him feel like he could cry and cry and cry until he ran dry. Her fingers left his hair and moved down to his shoulders, her body dropping to the floor until they were face to face. She too, was crying, her black eyeliner smudged and her lashes sticking together. How…how could he bring such sadness to her? How could such a tenderness still exist in her eyes as she stared into the soul of the convicted?

"Stop that, Vegeta. It isn't your fault. What could you have possibly done, except gone with them?"

That wasn't true, his brain said. There was plenty he could have done. He could have…he could tackled Dodoria, or punched Zarbon. Raditz was too scared to do anything, which didn't make him a threat, so he could have overpowered them, right? His father was just too weak, Vegeta was certainly stronger…right?

"You did the right thing, Vegeta. And if you're asking me how I can trust a man who does the right thing, then the answer is why wouldn't I?" Bulma stroked the sides of his face, searching his eyes to let him know that she was sincere, that she was being transparent. But he couldn't hear it. Refused to hear it. "If you had been there with them, then you wouldn't be here. Here with me. Call me selfish, but I don't want to think of a world where I never met you."

How can she say that to him? Doesn't she know that his hands are bloodied too? That he had a choice to make and he made the wrong one?

"I don't know what to do Bulma," he spat through gritted teeth, feeling more and more foolish with every passing second. "I could turn him in and risk that it won't work, putting you in danger. Or I could refuse to work for him and put you in danger. Or I could work for him and put you in danger! Everything comes back to your safety. And I've…I've already _failed_ once. I… I can't jeopardize that. If something happened to you…" He trailed off, unable to speak such monstrosities aloud. "I already don't have a family."

"Vegeta..." she pressed her forehead to his, kissing him lightly on the side of his face. "Listen to me. You're a liar, you know that? You've lied to yourself by telling yourself it's your fault. You've lied to yourself by telling yourself that you're inadequate. You are the most brilliant star in all of the galaxy, Vegeta N'Ouija. And I'm lucky to be burned by you every time I reach out for a touch." She pulled back, tears racing down her pink cheeks. He couldn't stop looking at her, like she was his salvation during a sea of crisis. A prayer in a physical form.

"And most importantly, you've lied about not having any family. I'm…I'm your family, Vegeta. I know you've been alone and hurting for so long, but I promise I'll always try to make it hurt a little less. I'm here, for as long as you want me to be, I'm here. You're my family too."

It was what broke him.

He went numb, having been struck be her words, by her honesty. He could see the truth in the spaces of her teeth, in the plumpness of her lips. Life…life had gotten to be less chaotic since she entered his life in that alleyway. She was a quiet calm in an ocean of madness, a drink of water in the desert. She _was_ his family. Looking at her, hearing her words, he could vividly remember every symphony that was written in her likeness, every note that was played to the sound of her name. A new melody entered his brain, except instead of wanting to play it at the piano, he desperately urged to sing it for her. Here. Now.

"I love you," he said, no hesitation about being so emotionally open, no regards to how fragile he may seem. It wasn't the first time he said he loved her, and he probably should've said it more times, but never before had Vegeta meant it as much as he did now. Every syllable in those three words had her name tightly bound inside, so that no one dare asked who he could be referring to. The way her face lit up showed him that she had never heard it so earnestly before either. As if him saying it through the thickness of his tears had birthed her anew.

If she ever had doubts, he would clear them.

"I love you Bulma, probably more than anyone I've ever loved," he reached up and grabbed her, pulling him closely in his embrace, as if he could be her shield to the doom around them. "I…I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being weak, but I won't let that happen anymore. You are the most important thing in my life, even more than the music I write. I will protect you with everything I have in me, even if I die."

"Don't say that," she squealed beneath him, hugging tightly against his body. Her shoulders shook and he gripped her tighter, wanting to calm her just as she did with him. "I love you too, Vegeta. I hope you understand one day just how much I do. We'll figure this out, okay? You don't have to do this alone. Let me protect you just as much as you want to protect me!"

It felt good, hearing those words, far more good than he would admit. He would concoct a plan, figure out something. He and Nappa and Raditz…and Bulma too. They would figure something out. Everyone would be safe, Kakarot as well. None of them would relive the hell that his family endured, he swore it. Bulma was right, he wasn't alone anymore. He had the resources, he had the final key, he had the smoking gun. And most importantly, he had her.

He might deny one day about being so emotional, about breaking down in the heat of his sorrows, clutching on to the woman who gave him a renewed sense of purpose. He would never speak it out loud, this private intimate moment they shared. But in that moment, in the midnight hour, Vegeta let all of that go as he held Bulma, his chin resting on top of her soft curls, his hand stroking her back. He meant it, he loved Bulma so much that he himself didn't understand it, and his heart hurt every time he tried to decipher how deep it ran for her. He could avenge his family in numerous ways, and keeping the most important person to him safe was one of them.

So with no hesitation, with no concern about pros and cons or this and that, Vegeta lowered his cheek to hers and whispered in her ear:

"Okay."

oooOOOooo

**A/N**

**I really hope you liked this chapter guys! It was slightly hard to write after the long hiatus, so I hope it isn't terrible. I hope you'll leave a nice review letting me know your thoughts!**

**In the hiatus I've been away, I haven't been very active on Tumblr. Mainly because I've found Twitter a little easier to use. So if you're on there, please give me a follow so we can all chit chat! I'm bitchii_usa on there.**

**Anyways, I hope not to take too long with the next chapter, we're wrapping it up here folks. Only three more chapters and an epilogue away from the ending. Thank you to everyone who is still sticking around with me, I genuinely love you guys.**

**Talk to you soon!**


	23. Friday

_**Concerto Twenty Three: Friday** _

_**A/N: It's summer time. This chapter has the perfect drink to beat the heat.** _

oooOOOooo

It started on a Friday morning.

It was the hottest day of spring so far, the weather slowly transitioning into the heat barracks of summer. The evidence of this dripped from Bulma's nose, cascading across her upper lip slowly before disregarding her body altogether to land on the smooth planes of Vegeta's chest. Her sweat bead joined his skin, begging her to place her flat palms on him and spread the soils of her hard work. She sucked in a tight breath as her hips rolled over him, unable to break her tranced stare from him, unable to stop the sensitivity inside of her that was building into something so damn _good._

His hands kneaded at her side, keeping little control on the reigns that were her intricate movements, letting her star as the ringleader of their erotic circus. This was new, Bulma let her mind ponder for a second, Vegeta giving up control like this. Whether she rode him or lay underneath him, there was always this sort of need to be in charge, to make Bulma squeal into submission, to make her body writhe with waves of pleasure until she was left to dry in the sand.

But not today.

Today, Bulma discovered as she ran one of his thick hands to her breasts, silently demanding that he cup them for her increased pleasure, Vegeta had no qualms about being _her_ subject, _her_ experiment. From the smoldering way his eyes narrowed at her, the chocolate specks in his irises dancing around madly, he seemed to like being pushed to the background. And from the way he bit his lip, looking into her flushed face like a carnivore ready to devour his meat, she was doing it _right_.

"Fuck," he drew a breath and momentarily closed his eyes, taking full delight in the way Bulma rocked her hips forward, leaning against his stomach to rub the sensitive nub between her legs, "You feel so good today."

Her giggle turned into a sigh as she bent forward to kiss him, rewarding him for his gratification. It _was_ different today, if Vegeta's admission was any proof of that, but not for the way their bodies seemed to mold a little more perfectly, if that were possible. Not for the way she easily accepted him inside, as if her body fully understood that no man fit for her other than him. Not for the way he looked at her more tenderly, more trustworthily. Touching her as if he owed everything to her existence itself.

It was different because for the first time since the start of their relationship, Bulma could honestly admit that they had fully given themselves to each other.

They hadn't talked about Vegeta's breakdown, about his truthful words as he held her in this very living space. There was no need to, she decided, because Vegeta just wasn't that type of guy. She had accepted it, understanding that far more than his words could ever provide, his actions spoke on behalf of his lips. And since that night two weeks prior, Vegeta had begun to open up a little bit more. Not verbally, but the energy he harvested seemed to always carry a plus one, like he had given Bulma an invisible keycard to all of him, and she did the same so effortlessly in return. And now the birth of their relationship plateau showed in the way their bodies flowed together, so fluid, so natural.

It made a tear fall from her eye, landing on his cheek.

She drew back from his mouth then, bending her head down as the pleasure grew, and grew, and grew. He moved a piece of blue hair from her temples, stuck to her sweaty head like feathers, and smirked out a chuckle. "Does it feel _that_ good?" He mocked her, causing her to lift her head slowly to look at him, his canines gleaming with the early sun that beamed through the large windows. "So good that you're crying?"

She didn't really know why she was crying, but the overwhelming way he stared into her as if he was summoning her soul made her stomach flutter with butterflies. Bulma could cross several galaxies, could meet any species of male that existed beyond the planes of reality, and know in her wildest dreams that she could never find a love like this. A love like Vegeta.

And even in the midst of their storms, even in the uncertainty of this whole Frieza mess, in this moment, in this pleasurable moment, she could lose herself to him completely, could moan out his name like a prayer, her tears refusing to stop falling from her eyes.

Vegeta's hands circled around her waist, and before she could comprehend what was happening, he lay her gently on her back, his hips immediately taking over, his hand coming from underneath her to thumb away the wet trails on her cheeks.

"What's wrong?" He said, trying (and failing) to speak the words without having them cloaked in his husky voice. His face dropped to a look of concern, but the fact that he didn't stop grinding his hips made it impossible for his grunts to cease, or for his eyes to stop gobbling her up like she was the last piece of cherry pie at a barbeque. And it certainly didn't stop Bulma from squeaking out a sigh of satisfaction, her body silently thankful for the break, the fruits of his labor pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

She reached up and grabbed his face, forcing him down to her, the soft breaths of her parted lips kissing him softly. "Just," she said in between her impromptu crying, in between her moans that were becoming harder and harder to suppress, "Just make love to me, _please_."

She asked. He obliged.

No more talking was required from either of them as Vegeta sank home into her again and again. Perfectly hitting _that_ spot from his angle, again and again. Making her cry harder, groan harder, ask harder, again and again.

Bulma was going to lose it.

That _face_ , that beautiful, ruggedly handsome face that she believed had been crafted for her own benefit, washed over her like waves in a storm and she couldn't break from him. _Gods be damned, Vegeta,_ she thought as he closed the small gap between them, capturing her lips with his, _you're going to be the death of me._

It made her stomach hurt how _good_ he was making her feel. What on earth, she wondered as the edge slipped from under her feet, made her body react to him so greedily today? To make the wetness that spilled from her eyes match the flood that poured from her legs as Vegeta took her there, took himself there, took them to a paradise that neither of them entirely prepared for. She sang of her victory through the dancing of their tongues, bathing in the warm blanket of an orgasm that felt like a first one.

Vegeta was the first to land back on the planet of reality, slowly pulling away and out of her as he repositioned their bodies back to the start, cradling her as she leaned against his chest. Her body was still convulsing, unable to fully return back home as she lazily threw an arm over his chest, lightly pecking his pectorals as a smile refused to dim itself from her radiant face. "That was something, huh?"

Vegeta grunted in reply, his arm now resting over his probably sleepy eyelids. His other hand traced small infinity symbols on her upper arm, sending tiny goosebumps on her sweat slickened skin. She chuckled and rose to look at him, resting her cheek against her hand. "Hey sleepy head, don't tell me you're checking out on me already."

"'S your fault," he mumbled out, his tone laden with grogginess. Bulma's belly flipped at how content he looked, almost like a child who ate too much of their favorite sweets. Then again, Vegeta certainly satisfied his sweet tooth this morning himself.

The thoughts of candy and other delectable treats began to manifest in her imagination, and instead of making her hungry with curiosity, it made her stomach heat up unpleasantly. She let out a groan and closed her eyes, hoping the feeling would dissipate. This forced Vegeta to peek at her from under his arm, his hand massaging her back with comfort. "Are you okay?"

She tried to nod her head, but the ache in her belly soon turned to nausea, and she found it increasingly difficult to bite down the waves that brewed. "My stomach just started to hurt, that's all."

Vegeta removed his arm from his face entirely, his features twisted with concern. "It could be the heat. You _did_ just exercise in it, afterall."

She chuckled at that, but the glee was short lived as the nausea struck her again, slamming into her forcefully before she jumped up from him altogether, sprinting towards the bathroom with gusto. The result was immediate, as she threw up whatever was upsetting her body into the toilet, unable to stop the pain. It _was_ hot, she'd give it that, and the way that the sweat still dripped from her forehead indicated that perhaps Bulma went a little _too_ deep into her performance and overheated herself. In any fashion, accepting this knowledge did not cease the smooth ache of the nausea, nor did it stop her vomiting.

She felt a cold towel on the back of her neck, her shoulder length curls being swept away from her face. Vegeta bent down and seemed to assess the situation, although she wanted to shoo him away from the gross reality that slept underneath her face. But his hand that massaged her back was welcoming, and slowly Bulma started to find relief.

"Maybe you should soak in a lukewarm bath," he suggested, and Bulma peered over the bowl to look at him, noticing the concern that etched into the hairs of his eyebrows. She also noted that he brought her a bottle of water, and she glugged it down as he offered it to her, releasing her hair in the meantime.

"Maybe," she said in between gulps, the cold liquid seeming to settle her belly even more, "I think I got too carried away."

He smirked, standing up to turn the faucet on and draw her bathwater. "What am I going to do with you in this heat?" His tone may have been serious, but the teasing burst through his words like the sun after a rainstorm, "Crying during sex and now vomiting because you decided to show off?"

She felt a little silly then, albeit it in a comedic way, and flushed the evidence of her sick away from her eyes, turning her nose up as it swirled down the drain. "I'll have to do better, I suppose. You're right, a bath is probably what I need and then I'll feel better. I have to meet my parents later anyways, the last thing I need is my mom trying to make me soup in this heat." Vegeta grunted a sound quite similar to a chuckle behind her, and Bulma pretended that a full recovery was in the immediate future as the swirling in her stomach began again, trying her best to resist the urge to hurl into the toilet.

 _It's the heat,_ she coaxed herself, resting her heated forehead on her arm, _It's the heat and the stress of this situation with Frieza, that's all. I've just had the best orgasm in my life and my body betrays me like this._ She clenched her fist and fought down and other wave of nausea, using that determined brain of hers to will the sickness away, reminding herself how just a few moments ago she was lost in nirvana.

_It's just this stupid heat._

oooOOOooo

Dr. Briefs stroked his thick moustache as he looked over a stack of papers attached to a clipboard, nodding to whatever schematics that were running through his brain. The delivery man that stood in front of him looked impatient as he balanced his weight from one foot to the other, indicating that he was ready to head back to whatever he was doing. But when Bulma walked into the laboratory, skillfully balancing a tray of three smoothies and a box of donuts, the man suddenly found a lot more interest in sticking around. He tipped his hat to her, his white teeth flashing in a flirtatious manner as his eyes gobbled her up like she was the treats that were being carried in her hand.

"Afternoon, miss. Sure is a little brighter now that you've arrived, isn't it?" he said in a southern drawl, his innocent boyish features and boring blonde hair failing in comparison to the man she _just_ left, prompting her to chuckle and roll her eyes at his obvious flirting. She nodded at him, taking a cue from Vegeta in getting people to promptly leave her be, focusing instead on her father who wasn't paying attention to either of them.

"The name's Turbine," he persisted, stretching an arm out to Bulma as if she could _actually_ accept his handshake, making her frown at him for his lack of courtesies. "And what might your lovely name be-"

"Uh, Dad?" Bulma ignored him, walking over towards a bench to set the items down. Dr. Briefs eyes lifted then as if Bulma had said some bibbidi-bobbidi-boo and broke his spell, the blues of his aging irises speckled with shock.

"Bulma, honey! I didn't hear you come in!" He hurriedly scribbled his signature on the sheets, carelessly handing it over to Turbine before walking towards his daughter. Turbine frowned, glancing briefly at Bulma to see if he could try his luck again, but her carefully avoided gaze at him seemed to prompt him to give up entirely, much to her delight. It amazed her still, she thought as she handed over one of the smoothies to her father, how since Vegeta had come into her life, every man she came across just felt…inferior. It was almost as if she were dating a prince; a prince who didn't need any subjects other than her, and she would happily worship him. The only other man in her life who could come remarkably close was the old coot slurping down his cherry berry smoothie like it was the first thing he'd drunken (or eaten) all day.

"Oh I thank you immensely for that. Dealing with this moving company all day to move the smart robots and other gear made me forget to eat!" At that, he opened the donut box and scarfed down a chocolate long john, staining the ends of his moustache brown. Bulma laughed and handed him a napkin, grabbing her smoothie to join him.

"Anytime, Dad. I'm surprised Mom let you go this long without eating. Speaking of, where is she?"

Dr. Briefs grumbled something and washed down his half eaten donut with more of his drink, already peeking in the box and preying on his next sugary confection. "She's been outside with them all morning, guiding them here and there to make sure everything is packed the way it needs to be. I'd say she's going above and beyond for her dear old sweetie, but something tells me that she's so enthusiastic given these young men with their strapping arms. You know how your mother can be."

Bulma snorted, nodding her head in agreement. Mrs. Briefs certainly enjoyed the company of good looking men in her presence, especially younger men with strong muscles and sharp jawlines, like the man Bulma brought to dinner on multiple occasions. She could only imagine the sort of field day her mother was currently partaking in, imagining all the 'favors' she was asking them to do. "She's quite the entertaining woman, that's for sure."

"How do you suppose she reeled _me_ in? I can't even be upset at her. It isn't like I too haven't reaped the benefits of her friendliness. She's already gotten me two discounts on moving fees because she complimented the owner on his smile. Who am I to stand in the way of a fiscal fate?" Bulma laughed heartedly at her dad as he polished off his donut and reached for the other one he had been pining for. He passed the box to her after one was securely in his fingers, but the images from the morning flooded Bulma's mind, asking her to politely decline.

" _You_ don't want a strawberry donut?" Dr. Briefs stilled the donut that ghosted across his lips, looking at his daughter with wide eyes. "I can barely keep a secret stash of them myself whenever you're around and you're turning one _down_? Are you feeling okay, dear?"

Bulma bit down on her straw, ceasing any more smoothie from entering her mouth. Even the thought of the word _donut_ made her body heat uncomfortably, and for a brief moment she cursed herself for buying them in the first place. It sounded like a good idea when she went into the bakery, and when she stood in line her mouth practically drooled itself over at the thought of strawberry and chocolate cream coating her tongue, but now even the sight of them made her want to hurl. "I think I have a mild stomach bug or something. I was really ill earlier and I don't want to chance it again. I'm still a little nauseous."

Dr. Briefs bit into his donut and chewed over it slowly, narrowing his eyes at her. Something passed from him to her, but Bulma didn't have the energy to try and decipher what it was. "This _morning_?" He said, covering his mouth with his hand to shield away flying pastry crumbs. "You felt sick this morning?"

"Yeah. I think it was the heat. I umm, was working too hard and might have over exhausted myself." She touched the back of her neck and felt her cheeks heat up, convinced that her pale skin had been replaced by apples. She hoped Vegeta hadn't left any evidence of their passions on her, she was already feeling more than a little emotional about what had transpired between them. "I got a smoothie to at least put some sort of nutrient in my body, but even this is hard to swallow down."

"Hmm." Dr. Briefs drank another swallow of his smoothie, his eyes still studying his daughter in a way that Bulma couldn't put her finger on. "I'm sure you were working _very_ hard dear, especially now that you and Vegeta are pretty much _cozied_ up in the loft. I'm inclined to say I'd have to agree with you. I'm sure that your hard work _is_ the reason for your stomach virus." The tips of his moustache crinkled up, and Bulma recognized _that_ look. It usually meant he was speaking in riddles, and given the mad scientist that her father was, he was leaving it to her to figure out the equations behind his words. But the way her stomach was flipping and dancing like her body was the Olympics, she decided to pay him no mind. "In any case, why don't you have a seat? It's been busy in here all day and I'm sure the extra bodies only made it that much stuffier in here." He pulled a stool from underneath the work bench, sliding it over to her. Bulma didn't even realize how tired she felt, but sitting on the stool felt _damned_ good, and she hoped that her parents were in no rush to kick her out anytime soon.

"It's hard to believe that the smart home is all finished. It seems like just yesterday we were still working out the prototype, and now it's ready to be debuted." She stretched her legs happily, grateful for the air conditioning that tickled her bare skin. "I'm really proud of you, Dad. I never thought you could make Capsule Corps stronger, but here you are with the invention of a lifetime."

"Well I couldn't have done it without my favorite lady -don't tell your mother I said that. As far as she knows you're second best." He chuckled and pulled a seat for himself, grabbing one more donut from the box. He broke it in two and looked at Bulma warily before passing her the other half of the plainly glazed treat.

"Dad I really can't." Bulma turned her nose up and looked away from it, shutting her eyes and pretending she didn't see the thing so up close.

"Honey I know it's not the best thing you can do for your stomach, but do your old man some justice and eat _something_. The last thing I need is for you to pass out from heat exhaustion _and_ starvation." His eyes were practically pleading for her to eat it, and Bulma noticed he had given her the courtesy to pick a donut without all of the extras. It was strange, she thought as she reluctantly accepted it. Her father _never_ tried to make her eat anything before, not even when she was a teenager and starving herself because some lump headed boy broke her heart. But here he was, asking her to eat this donut as if it was his lifeline. She broke a small piece off of it and brought it to her lips, hesitating before popping it into her mouth. It was…good, sure, but the immediate reaction of her body made her spit it out, and she reached for her smoothie as if her tongue burned.

"Well can't say I didn't try, but…" he looked at her as if she was a science experiment, and she was sure he was implanting some sort of mumbo jumbo into that brain of his. "Well I suppose if you _really_ can't keep it down, then there's no point of forcing you to any longer. Besides, I want to make sure you're nice and well for the International Science Exposition next week. Your old man is giving a speech, you know."

Bulma nodded, grateful that the traces of donut had been overpowered by her lemon and mint smoothie, and smiled at him. "I remember you telling me! I'll be in the front row with bells on, me and Vegeta both. I can't wait to see their faces when you unveil it, Dad. You're going to blow all of those so called scientists out of the water." She pumped her fist into the air, winking at him like she was his athletic coach.

"Of course I'll make sure to tell them about my beautiful, artistic, genius of a daughter who helped me draw up the plans and execute it. There's no way I would've been able to think of keeping a generator inside to make sure the robots function at all hours of the day. I was more than ready to equip them with a cool down function. I'm sad you won't let me put your name on it, sweetie. You'd make the perfect president of Capsule Corps."

"It's alright Dad, I was just tossing out ideas to you," she shook her head, "Besides, I don't think I could love any other job as much as I do painting. It feels good to know my purpose for living, you know? Vegeta really helped me understand that." She could feel herself blushing and knew that her face was doing the warm and fuzzies by the way Dr. Briefs smiled in return. _Gods_ , could she ever talk about him and _not_ turn into a giddy teenager? It'd been months since they'd been together, and she still wanted to gush about him like he was the savior of the earth.

"I'm glad he'll be there, it'd be good to have the entire family present. I know I say it all the time but I'm _really_ happy you two found each other. Not that I dislike Yamcha or anything, but there was no future with you and him. Especially with all these new and… _exciting_ things about to happen to you." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, forcing Bulma to let out a sigh. Okay fine, if he was going to keep dangling this riddled hook over her, she may as well bite.

"Alright, Dad spit it out. What is it you're trying to say?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all!" He glared at her mischeviously, taking a swallow of his smoothie. "I'm only saying that it's clear you're about to start a new chapter in your life. As your father, I'm extremely thrilled that it's Vegeta I can pass the torch to. At least I know he can handle it. You're growing into quite the woman, it almost makes me weep." He feigned a cry and wiped a phantom tear from his cheek, smiling smugly at her in the process.

"Oh Dad, you're such a sap. But I am happy you and Mom like him so much, it makes me feel like I'm doing something right. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have this opportunity to have my own gallery show. Oh! How could I almost forget to tell you?" She sat her smoothie down on the bench and folded her arms gleefully, her face beaming and tongue itching to tell her good news. "I talked to Baba yesterday! A lot of buyers have been coming through the galleria in preparation for the art show and several of them have put bids for my pieces already! Baba said that people were so interested that she's considering an early retirement and wants _me_ to take over! Said that I would have no issues bringing money into keep the galleria open!"

"Oh, honey, that's great!" Dr. Briefs rose, his arms stretched outwards as he walked to Bulma embracing her in a hug. "Forget what I said about being a president, you're a _galleria_ owner! I'm so proud of you, Bulma!" The hairs from his moustache tickled her cheek uncomfortably, but it was his thick cologne that invaded Bulma's nostrils that made her politely withdraw from the hug, her good mood soiled by her upsetting stomach. If anything, he didn't seem to notice because his face still beamed with pride as he looked down to her. "Guess when I said you were starting a new chapter in your life, it meant in _every_ way."

Her eyebrow rose at that and she narrowed her eyes, inspecting his face closely. Her father _sure_ had a lot of subtle remarks this afternoon, and Bulma was confidant it wasn't just because of their shared good news. "What are you riddling about, Da—"

The door to the laboratory flung open loudly behind them, cutting Bulma off mid-sentence. A pair of wide hips, adorned with skin tight white pants, sauntered in as graceful as an ice skater during a performance. "Oh! Bulma!" Mrs. Briefs smiled widely as if she hadn't seen her daughter in _years_ , her small eyes squinting until all that remained where fluffy lashes coated in mascara. "I didn't know you were here! Mama's been waiting for you!" She carried a box overstuffed with numerous snacks, a long cylinder containing what Bulma believed to be popcorn hanging over the top.

"What is that, Mom?" Bulma covered her nose with the back of her hand, already beginning to turn away from the sight of the salty treat.

"Oh this? Those nice _handsome_ men gave them as a gift to me! Here I was thinking they had been overworked, you know your Mama can be really demanding, but instead they said _I_ deserved the treat! They gave me so much dear, won't you take some home with you?"

Bulma had to shake her head at her mother's theatrics. She was like the pied piper of poor unsuspecting men, ones who probably thought more with the organ in their legs instead of the one in their skull, latching them on with her sultry walk and her honeyed words. But she was a faithful woman, Bulma certainly wouldn't take that away from her, and often left them in their wake like a puddle around her feet. Funny enough, they all seemed to still _worship_ Mrs. Briefs, even if had to they watched an impressive physique and radiant smile throw herself on the good doctor. Snacks, Bulma thought with an acidic taste on her tongue, were the _least_ expensive gifts her mother had been bestowed upon the years.

"No thanks, Mom," she said, although the sudden thought of popcorn made her mouth salivate with a need she didn't know she could produce.

"Not even the popcorn, sweetie?" Mrs. Briefs _had_ to possess some sort of psychic ability, Bulma was sure of, as she sat the box down and unscrewed the lid. "Your mama had some of it outside and it's so crunchy and buttery, just like you like it with the right amount of salt. Won't you try it?"

"Dear," Dr. Briefs walked over to his wife and placed a kiss on her cheek before pouring himself a handful, tucking some behind his moustache and into his mouth, "It seems as if our daughter isn't feeling too well to eat much today. She even turned down a strawberry donut."

Mrs. Briefs eyes rose open like curtains to a window, and she shifted gaze from Bulma to Dr. Briefs in shock. "A _strawberry_ donut? Oh my! What's wrong with you darling?"

The kernels that were being scarfed down by her father might as well have been freshly popped because Bulma could smell it from where she was sitting, and _gosh_ , did it start to smell tasty. And unlike the donuts, Bulma's stomach growled in a _good_ way that made her have a sudden change of mind. "Actually," she said, perching her hand out like a bird begging for seeds, "Maybe I _will_ try some of that popcorn."

"Oh you will?" Dr. Briefs walked to her with the container and poured some in her hand, and Bulma ignored his curious stare as she threw some in her mouth, immediately relishing in the buttery taste, just like her Mama said.

 _Fuck_ , it was good. And it didn't make her want to barf. A win/win.

She almost wanted to close her eyes and stop her chewing to savor the flavor, convinced she hadn't eaten anything so _tasty_ before. But her hands were faster than her brain and before she knew it her snack was consumed, and she was left feeling unsatisfied. "More please?" she asked in the mannerism of a child, giddy when her father refilled her palms with more goodness.

"Oh I knew you'd like it!" Mrs. Briefs cupped her hands together and displayed her signature radiant smile again. "I'm sad to think you almost turned it down!"

Bulma nodded in agreement but was too focused on eating her popcorn that she didn't even pay attention to her mother. Didn't pay attention to her father pouring more in her hands, didn't pay attention to when he left it on the bench because she had already scarfed down three handfuls in a matter of minutes. Didn't pay attention to Dr. Briefs saunter back to his wife and whisper something in her ear, causing her to look at Bulma with misty eyes and a hand covered mouth. Barely paid attention to her mother coming to her on the stool and wrapping her arms around Bulma's shoulders, dropping some of the popcorn in the process.

"Oh Bulma!" She whispered through strands of her blue hair, rubbing her cheek against her daughter's. "Have I told you how beautiful you are lately? How radiant you look? You're _beaming_ my love!"

Bulma tried her hardest to keep the popcorn inside her cheeks, already eyeing the canister to dispense more into her hands. "Umm, thanks mom?" She awkwardly patted her mother on the back, not fully understanding what the sudden display of affection was about. Were both of her parents _off_ today or what?

Mrs. Briefs pulled back from their hug, wiping away wet stains on her cheeks. She was crying? Over Bulma eating popcorn? "What's wrong, Mom?"

"Nothing, dear," she shook her head, sniffling and clearing her throat, "Nothing at all. I'm just so proud to be your Mama. Say, I think I need to grab some items this afternoon. Oh honey won't you come with me to the store? You and I have some _special_ preparations to do before your Daddy's Expo next week! And don't say no, Mama is using her parental card on this one!" Not leaving any room for Bulma to object (and partly because her cheeks were still stuffed with kernels) Mrs. Briefs turned away from her, grabbing a purse that sat near her husband, the two of them exchanging glances that were tightly wrapped in a secret. Bulma was confused; her parents were delighted.

"Oh honey," Mrs. Briefs turned her head around, tossing a subtle wink to Bulma and looking perkier than ever, "Bring the popcorn container, would you? I've a feeling you'll be snacking on that for a good portion of the afternoon."

oooOOOooo

Bulma's hands were extremely sweaty.

It wasn't because of the bright lights that shone down on her, courtesy of the giant convention center that she found herself dining in. It wasn't because her father had kept his word and thanked her a million times during his unveiling speech, practically forcing her to join him on stage. It wasn't the hoarding of reporters, bloggers and columnists alike leeching off of her brain for the past two hours, bombarding her with questions about her role in the smart home. And it certainly wasn't the fact that she could barely touch her steak, and instead gulped down more water than her body could probably take.

It was because Bulma was an anxious, unprepared _mess_.

It started on a Friday morning, a week ago, she remembered. When things…changed.

"Are you not going to finish that?" She looked up to Vegeta, the right side of his mouth slightly droopy with his own steak, his eyebrows bundled together in confusion. "You've barely touched anything since this dinner and we're almost done." He sounded more concerned than angry, but Bulma also knew that Vegeta had been watching her eating habits closely since she had gotten sick a week ago, and the bug hadn't seemed to have left yet.

She glanced at his plate and the plates of her mother and father, surveying their last bits of steak and asparagus in comparison to her barely touched meat, potatoes and vegetables. She had been skimming through her food for the better half of dinner, unable to calm down her frenzied nerves despite the warm atmosphere in the air.

"I'm just not as hungry as I thought," she lied, forcing a smile on her face and hoping it would alleviate his nerves as well. It didn't, she noticed, from the way his eyes shifted slightly in disapproval towards her meal. To satisfy him, she took a small bite, pretending that it would actually settle in that tornado of a stomach of hers.

"Bulma," Vegeta started, polishing down his steak with some wine, "I don't think-"

"It's because it isn't as good as Mama's, isn't it dear?" Mrs. Briefs wiggled her nose at her daughter and Vegeta, slipping a piece of asparagus past her cherry red lips. "I'll admit, I would have used a little more butter to keep it tender, and the vegetables seem like they're boiled."

"I agree, hun," Dr. Briefs wiped his face with a napkin, nodding towards his wife. "I've barely been able to swallow this meal down. It's nowhere _near_ as good as yours. I'm not surprised Bulma can't finish it in a timely manner."

Bulma wanted to hug them. Anything to help her out, it seemed.

Vegeta raised his eyebrow, looking at all three of them like they were crazy. His plate was the emptiest of them all, with barely even a crumb left behind, and she could tell that _he_ thought the dinner was delicious. And why wouldn't it be? In honor of her father, Capsule Corps had rented this special hallway in the convention center, complete with top of the line chefs to cater to the meal. Bulma wouldn't be surprised if her father had gotten the chef to fly in from France exclusively, but still they had lied for her sake.

"Maybe you all got bad plates," Vegeta swallowed his last piece of steak and finished his third wine glass, at some point along the way drinking Bulma's also. "My steak was some of the best cut of beef I've had in a long while. If you make anything better, Mrs. Briefs, I'll have to put in a request for you to make it sometime."

"Oh aren't you just the cutest thing!" Mrs. Briefs raised her champagne flute up and rested her cheek against it, beaming at Vegeta like he was a statue she should worship. "Of _course_ I'll make you anything you want, Veggie!"

Bulma sighed at this nickname her mother had all but forced on Vegeta. She peeked at him from the corner of her eye and saw his own eye twitch, knowing he didn't like it much either. But that was her mother and her tricks, able to get even a grouch like Vegeta to accept a name that he would curse anyone else for using. Seemed her own boyfriend wasn't exempt from her mother's spell.

Vegeta turned his attention back to her, his lips dropping down into a frown. "Bulma, I've been with you all day and you've barely put anything on your stomach other than popcorn. I can't say that's the best thing for you."

"I'm fine, I promise." She raised her hand in the air, giving him her scout's honor, her lips curving up into a gentle smile. "Tomorrow I'll make us a big breakfast and I'll eat until I'm ready to pop. I just don't have much of an appetite tonight." She reached for her glass of water and nearly dropped it, her sweaty palms acting as a lubricant for the glass to slide downwards. Luckily she managed to keep herself together, forcing the water past her lips to swallow down any words she didn't want to say.

Vegeta pressed his stare into hers for some time, clearly not buying what she was trying to sell, and let out something between a grunt and a sigh that acknowledged his defeat. He held out his champagne flute as a waiter walked past them, almost finishing his wine the second it was refilled. Bulma sure hoped he didn't get _too_ wasted. Not for what she had to do, that is.

As dinner began to die down, and as Bulma's nerves began to rise up, music began to spill through the speakers in the hall. She wasn't sure if it was the open bar or the excitement of the employees of their company doing so well in the expo, but several attendees began to take their dates to the dancefloor, shamelessly dancing to some doo wop rock n' roll.

"Oh my, I remember this song!" Mrs. Briefs began to snap her fingers and wiggle her hips in her seat, stealing a glance at her husband. "My mother used to play this on the weekends when she cleaned the house. Sometimes I'd catch her and my father dancing along in the basement like no one else was in the house." She chuckled lightly, grabbing Dr. Brief's hand in hers.

"You should go up there and dance, Mom," Bulma suggested, seeing the young, vibrant spirit of her mother rise out of her like a phoenix.

"I'm afraid it's almost over," she exclaimed with a pout, "And I can't say that I want to dance to _every_ song they play. Besides, I'm really waiting on the slower stuff. Your Daddy here deserves a romantic dance for all his achievements, isn't that right dear?"

Her father blushed under his thick rimmed glasses and mumbled something incoherent, and Bulma knew that was the cue that they were going to be lost in their own world. They did that sometimes, getting so wrapped up in each other that nothing existed outside of the realm of them. She used to not understand that feeling, even on a good day with Yamcha, but now her prior jealousy had turned into agreement, and she turned to face _her_ version of the happiness her parent's shared.

Except his face was a cloudy storm of trouble, and from the way his onyx eyes ate her up, she knew that it was about her.

"Bulma," he said quietly, obviously trying not to invite her parent's input, "I'm worried about you. You've been quiet during dinner and you haven't eaten much, despite saying your stomach feels better. Are you..." he quickly glanced towards her parents, and seeing how they were still lost in the company of each other, continued. "Are you stressed about Frieza? I thought we agreed we'd give our brain's a rest tonight."

"No," she shook her head, feeling embarrassed that she had made him jump to that conclusion, "No it isn't that. I just…Well the thing is..."

The transition into the next song started, a familiar swoon of notes dancing in her ears. Vegeta heard it too, if the way his face smoothened out for a moment had anything to say about it. They were both hit by a wave of nostalgia, taken back to months ago when they were two people still figuring it out, still learning each other, just realizing that it was maybe something more than a fling with good conversation.

_Wise men say…_

Bulma giggled, reaching under the table cloth to grab Vegeta's hand before standing. His serene facial expression changed to a confused one, his lips parting to ask her what they were doing. Before he could spit the words out, she bent down to press her cheek to his, whispering in his ear:

"This is our song."

She pulled away from him, watching as the realization (mixed with a little apprehension; Vegeta certainly wasn't the type to dance in public) painted over his face. He made no effort to stop her from pulling him out of his seat, leading him to walk in front of her. He didn't remove his hand from hers, and Bulma knew in her heart of hearts that _this_ was the perfect time. There was no way that coincidence was a factor in _this_ song playing -of all the Elvis Presley songs to be played. She turned back to her parents, who much to her surprise had taken their attention off of each other to give to her, and nodded, signaling them in on her intention. Mrs. Briefs clasped her hand over her heart, her face looking like it was going to give way to her emotions. Dr. Briefs himself appeared to be incredibly happy, his eyes hopeful as he tilted his wineglass in her direction.

Now was the time.

Vegeta led her to the makeshift dancefloor where the other attendees were swaying, not bothering to take them any closer than the outer perimeter for privacy. Not that she minded, given that despite how perfect the moment aligned itself for her, she was still a frenzied mess on the inside. She wrapped her arms around his neck, his arms finding solace around her waist, and had to chuckle at the déjà vu of the moment.

"Look how far we've come, Vegeta," she smiled at him, cocking her head to the side. "I remember the first time we danced to this song when you didn't know how. Now you're moving like a professional."

"Hmph," he blew out, trying to appear annoyed but Bulma could tell he was just as affected by the romance of the moment as she was, "Well you aren't a _terrible_ teacher." The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, making her smile even wider.

"I hope I'm not a terrible anything, considering how long it's been since that day." She paused for a stint to look at him - _really_ look at him- and lose herself in the man that was Vegeta N'Ouija. She really hoped he wouldn't be angry…or worse…that he'd suggest….

"Did you ever think we'd be here?" She said, choosing not to marinate over the what ifs her anxiety ridden brain was slamming her with. "Back then when we first danced to this, did you ever think you'd be with me here?"

He looked away from her for a second, appearing to mull over the right words to give her. It was one of the things she loved about him, she thought, that he wouldn't say just _anything_ that came to his mind. The words had to be honest, had to be pure, had to be right. She had a mountain of patience for words like that.

He brought his head back to her, his eyes naked and giving and ready. Licking his lips, he said, "In all honesty, no."

 _Well, ouch_. She didn't want to appear offended, hoping that he would elaborate, but her facial expression couldn't stop itself from twisting into just that. In either case it worked, because he shook his head to continue.

"I don't mean it like that. I meant…I meant that I wasn't sure if you would even want to be bothered with me this long. Especially after finding out about my past." Something similar to shame swam across his eyes, only briefly, but enough that the damage was done. Bulma's heart broke into small pieces to think that he could doubt that she wouldn't - _couldn't_ \- leave him. "I'm not the easiest man to get close to, and I don't really like to let people in. I didn't think someone as pure and good as you would want to taint your hands with me."

"Don't speak about yourself that way," she cuffed her hands tighter around his neck, pulling her body even closer to his, the tip of her nose ghosting his own. "You talk about yourself like you're some anomaly. If there's anyone surprised here, it's _me_. I didn't think you'd ever let me in, the wash up of an artist who didn't respect herself to want better. Relationship or otherwise."

"And look at you now," he smirked teasingly, "Completely upgraded in every area of your life. Relationship and otherwise. I guess I would've been unkind to have left you to your own devices." He hummed along with Elvis as he crooned, nestling into Bulma's forehead.

"Well haha, asshole. Please, no need to be so modest." He chuckled huskily at that, the velvet of his tone making her chest bloom with flowers.

"I'm happy you chose to see what others didn't," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "You didn't have to, especially after the way I used to treat you, but you did. I could never thank you enough for that."

"If someone were to tell me last year that Vegeta N'Ouija would be slow dancing with me to Elvis Presley and speaking sweet nothings in my ear, I'd punch them in the face for lying."

"Do you want me to stop then?" He searched her face seriously, as if this was a question he _needed_ to ask.

She shook her head, unable to stop the smile that spread across her face. _Do it Bulma!_

She swallowed a rock of air in her throat, her conscious echoing through her mind. That's right…it had to be now. She was getting lost in the haze of him per usual, but there were more important seeds to be sewn. "Vegeta," she started, her tone shaky with apprehension, "I don't want you to be off put by my next question, but I really want to know the answer." She bit down on her lip as he studied her face, the last remnants of the song dying out in their ears. "Where…where do you see us going in the future? I'm not trying to pressure you…I just…want to know."

Vegeta seemed to ponder the question, and she hoped she hadn't upset him by asking. Bulma had never cornered him with plans and talks of the future, especially with all the circus involving his family life, but…but things were changing around them and for them, and a part of her wanted to make sure she was walking on stable ground.

Vegeta closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath. Her stomach turned with butterflies, her palms dampening with sweat all over again. Finally he opened them, his mask of uncertainty nowhere present on his face. "I…I don't think I ever want to be without you. I'm not sure what the future holds, and with Frieza being stirred in this pot…I'm not sure. But I do know that no matter what happens, I want you there."

Bulma's eyes misted at his admission. He…he was serious about them being together for a while, wasn't he? It's not like she _didn't_ know that, especially after what he told her in the loft a few weeks prior when he held onto her waist, but considering they never talked about something like this…it still felt nice to know. "No matter _what_?" She responded, feeling the tears build up in her throat. Why was this so hard to just come out and say, she wondered? She knew Vegeta, knew what kind of man he was, knew that despite all of the adversities he faced in his life that he _loved_ her, and yet Bulma was still afraid. Afraid for her. Afraid for him. Afraid that this wasn't the right time, with Frieza and all, that this wasn't the right time, that this wasn't the right time.

That this wasn't the right ti-

"No matter what." He spoke the words with finality, as if he knew what she wanted to say. "I feel like…with you by me…I can…" Being emotionally open was something new for him, she understood that, and telling her parts of himself that he had closed off for so long couldn't be easy. But it always made her proud that he _tried_. "I feel like I can make it through anything. We can make it through anything." She watched him swallow hard and try to collect his brain, his eyes demanding her full attention. "If…if we make it through this shitstorm unscathed, Bulma, I…I want to…"

"You want to _what_ , Vegeta?"

He went quiet for a moment, and his face seemed to mirror the nerves that she felt, as if he was afraid of her reaction to what he wanted to say too. But unlike her, he didn't spend a long time speculating and marinating. Instead he took a deep breath and said:

"When this is all over, I want to marry you."

Bulma's heart nearly exploded into fireworks, her eyes going wide.

She wasn't expecting that. But it was everything she needed to hear.

It started on a Friday morning.

How perfect, her brain thought, that in exactly a week's time, her life had flourished like this? That in the span of two Fridays, Bulma had gotten exactly what she had wanted, everything she never knew she wanted, and with the man she never expected to want.

She brought one hand to the side of his face, unable to stop the tears of happiness that pierced her eyes. "Vegeta…nothing would make me happier than that. I…I think I've wanted to marry you the day I laid eyes on you. And I've never wanted it more than I do now." She let her arm trail down his body, reaching behind her to grab his hand and squeeze it lightly before bringing it back to her front and placing their hands palm down on her stomach. He looked confused, at first, his eyes searching hers for what that meant, even though he knew. And then it started to settle over him. The realization of what it all meant. The sickness. The inability to eat a lot of food. The emotions…

And if he needed any more clarity, Bulma would be there to give it to him. _Speak the words, Bulma. Confirm it._

It started on a Friday morning, and it blossomed on a Friday night.

"I'm pregnant."

oooOOOooo

_**A/N: Wow, bet you didn't see that one coming, right? (sarcasm of course lol)** _

_**Thank you everyone who reviewed the last chapter! It meant so much to me to know people still cared about this story. I hope this chapter was okay for you, I'm very sorry if it isn't (as always and probably like most writers/artists, I'm not 100% sure if I like it.) I thought it'd be good to step away from the Frieza stuff for some fluff and lemon, because after this it's game time with the final 3 or 4 chapters. (which includes an epilogue). So please please please leave a review! They make me so happy and I seriously stop what I'm doing to read them. Feed your author and your author will feed you back.** _

_**Until next time friendos!** _


	24. Hope and Hell

_**Concerto Twenty-Four: Hope and Hell** _

oooOOOooo

Not even the loud thunder of Kakarot's bass could drown out Vegeta's thoughts.

The smooth rhythmic chords that jumped from Kakarot's strings blanketed the room with a velvety love letter, the other instruments swooning along in quiet accompaniment. Vegeta now knew this piece as much as he knew he needed air to breathe, so his brain and hands going on auto pilot was so frighteningly natural that when he slammed back into reality, he was surprised to discover that he had not missed a beat. _One. Two. Three. Four._ From the corner of his eye he caught the steady flow of his baton in perfect synchronization with the bass's hearty notes, but his mind was currently experiencing a glitch.

 _Pregnant_.

_I'm going to be a father._

… _.Shit._

He immediately felt bad. Bad that he was bathing in anxiety that he was having a child. A child with Bulma, of all people, the diamond in his rough existence. It was perfect, for all intents and purposes, that he was able to tie the final bow on this theme park that he called his love life. He had meant what he proposed, even if the words came out jumbly and unsteady. He _wanted_ to marry Bulma, _wanted_ to have a life with her, to live in a Monday through Sunday haze of bliss until his teeth decayed from it all. And yes, despite the surge of a tornado that existed inside of him at the moment, he _wanted_ to have a child with her. A child with eyes as bright as its mother, with a soul as passionate and kind as her too. And maybe with his musical chops, for safe measure.

But what kind of father would he be?

On both sides of the spectrum, Vegeta hadn't exactly been shown the proper way to parent a child. His mother had protected them, loved them, did her best to make sure they had some sort of normalcy. But her complacent marriage to his less than spectacular father didn't really do any of them any good. And don't get Vegeta started on the train wreck of a relationship that his father had passed down to his sons. He could write an entire musical on that catastrophe. But then again….what if in eighteen or so years, his own child would say the same about him?

 _No_ , he thought defiantly as he methodically turned the page of the piece, glancing down to awaken the chirping violins, immediately providing an extreme contrast to Kakarot's threatening presence. He would never repeat history like that. Never curse his child with his own shortcomings, despite how easy that trap would be to fall into. Bulma wouldn't let him, and he sure as shit wouldn't be proud of himself if he stooped that low. What churned the insides of his belly around was that he was still learning to love, and in his mind, had barely met the minimum requirements when it came to loving Bulma fully. But she was able to be patient with him, help him realize the areas he struggled with so that he could emerge a new, more pristine version of himself. A baby- an innocent and fragile human life force- would depend on him to rarely slack, for its own survival. No words to right his wrongs, no discussions on how their domestic situation could improve. And that thought alone scared Vegeta shitless.

The violins tried their damndest to soothe his worries as the musicians slurred their bows across the strings, resin dust sprinkling lightly in the air around them. It was beautiful, like a painting of dusk before dawn, and Vegeta could compliment them on their proficiency and accuracy in hitting those high octave notes, but even the song of angels couldn't destroy his inner demons. He couldn't even properly figure out a way to dispose of Frieza outside of putting his trust into Nappa, and here he was suddenly finding himself responsible for a human life.

Which brought him to the most gut sinking conclusion he couldn't stop thinking about: Bringing a child into a sinful world brought on by his own tragedies. By the ghost of his father's sins, and probably the ones before that. How…How could he rise to _that_ sort of challenge?

Bulma wasn't aware to his uneasiness, he thought with a tongue covered in guilt as he gestured towards the cellists to liven up the heart of the orchestra. Not that he was lying to her; once again a child with her wasn't even close to something he would label as rotten . And in no way would he have her thinking he was less than thrilled, even if he wanted to crumple into a pile of anxiety as soon as the words left her pretty little lips. He refused to jeopardize the one (and now two) good thing(s) in his life so far. She should be in bliss, not worrying about if the father of her child was as ecstatic as she was.

But the truth was that if Vegeta truly had his way, he thought with acidity at his own selfishness, he would have asked them to wait. At least until he was one hundred percent guaranteed that the curse of the N'Ouija bloodline was buried below their feet where their stomachs couldn't fall. He would never say that, but gods he wanted to. He just needed time. That fleeting, unfair yet justified thing called time.

But time did not need him, nor would it wait for him. In nine months, a new creation of life would emerge from Bulma, a testament to their rose bud of a relationship. At the thought of it, since the first time they had started rehearsing the piece, Vegeta made a mistake in his conducting, throwing off the steady beat of the silent metronome. Irritated at his wandering mind, he circled his fists and commanded that everyone cease their playing, an abrupt end to the parade of his score that immediately regurgitated silence. They stared at him in utter confusion, knowing just as well as he that there was no real reason for them to end.

He sighed, chewing the inside of his jaw while pinching the bridge of his nose. He needed to get it together. It had been two weeks since Bulma had dropped the news on him and yet he still marched around like a child who was unable to adapt to change. Tomorrow he would play what would probably be the most important concert of his career so far, and here he was being a baby about…well… having a baby.

"I'm sorry," he found himself saying without thinking, because he would _never_ offer an apology for restarting a piece to perfection, "I know that was a premature ending but I lost focus for a second. Let's pick up on the second page right after the bass's solo. Excellent work by the way, Kakarot." He closed his lips as if he just spilled a secret, his eyes darting across the orchestra in hopes that they weren't paying attention to him to hear what he said. Did he just….did he just throw out a _compliment_? To _Kakarot_?

He blamed Bulma's influence and his troubled thoughts.

The tall bass player did not comply with Vegeta's wishes, because stretched across a goofy face was the birthing of a grin, toothy and knowing and _excited_. "Wow, thanks Vegeta! I've been practicing _real_ hard, especially with Chi Chi not being around as much to bother me about playing too loud. And she finally agreed to put Gohan into daycare so it's just me during the day on the weekends-"

Oh. Good. _God._

"Kakarot," he breathed out a sigh, much too mentally exhausted to think of colorful insults, "Whatever is going on in your private life, believe me when I say this: I. Don't. _Care_." (Aaaand he was back.) Kakarot's face fell slightly, but covered it up with a curved smile. Vegeta grunted. Kakaraot smiled harder.

"Aww it's okay, Vegeta. I know you've got your _own_ personal life to worry about. Hey, congratulations by the way!"

Whispers (because of fucking course there were whispers) scattered among the adults like gnats at dusk, each of them wondering about what this extended congratulations could mean. Vegeta wanted to disappear, but for his own curiousity, his eyes slid down to the viola section towards the newly inducted Yamcha. Did _he_ know? Would he throw another tantrum if he did, despite their verbal contract? Leave it to Bulma to gossip with Kakarot's wife, but did that mean that Kakarot blabbered to his friends too?

Judging from the poorly masked look of hurt the scraggly haired man sported, the answer appeared to be yes. But then Yamcha looked at him and threw him an innocent smile, nodding his head as if he were saying it was okay. Hmph, like Vegeta needed his approval. He fought the urge to turn his nose up at him, let him know that just because he let the dog inside of the house did not mean it had permission to eat from his bowl. But still…at least that was _one_ headache he could avoid.

He coughed and straightened his back, preparing again to continue off where he prompted them to start over. Choosing to answer Kakarot's question would only be feeding the hungry at this point, and Vegeta preferred his artists to be starving. "I'd like to go back to the violin solo, if not to stroke my own ego. I'm quite pleased with how you all played through that part, it was a visual painting indeed."

Oh fucking _crap._ What the hell did Bulma put in his eggs this morning, _humility_?

"Wow," Eighteen folded her arms against her chest, "If I wasn't around to see this moment I swear I'd never believe it. Count Dracula himself shows us he's human."

"Watch it," he barked and meant it, "Just because I'm having an off day doesn't mean I'll entertain _anything_." Eighteen tossed him a smile as if she were about to challenge him on that, but her lips remained tightly sealed.

"Hey, Vegeta?" Tien grabbed onto his chin, intensely looking down at his sheet of music. "So I don't mean to dance on your toes or anything, but during the last play-through I came up with an idea. Care if I run it by you?"

Vegeta took a deep breath, not even wanting to look at Tien. It was a good thing that he was so focused on whatever the hell was going down at his stand, because Vegeta's intense gaze would've burned the bald man alive. "I don't recall this being an orchestra of democracy, Tien."

"Right, right, but didn't you give Goku a chance before?" This time he looked up to Vegeta, one eyebrow raised in a bow of curiosity as his eyes sparkled with mischief. "And that seemed to work for you. Consider me his second coming."

Fucking _great_. Give one baboon a banana and here comes the whole barrel. He grit his teeth but for some reason (and not because Kakarot had actually impressed him before, certainly _not_ ) , had the following to say to him: "Entertain me. But if you disappoint, I demand you remain silent for the entire rehearsal, understood?"

Tien flashed him a cocky smile, propping his viola under his chin. "Yeah, whatever you say. Can you violinists pick up where Vegeta told us to start from? And Goku, can you pluck you're G string during that part? I know you break there, but think of it like a heartbeat, alright? Like _bum-bum, bum-bum, bum-bum-bum_?"

"Like this?" Kakarot mimicked, plucking along to Tien's improved staccato.

"Yes, perfect! Alright violins, let's hear your siren song!" Tien, whether Vegeta wanted to admit it or not, sure knew how to direct. Almost an instant after the words left his mouth, the violins began their music, the colorful painting forming to life in Vegeta's mind again. There was something extra and unexpected there this time, like finding a cherry at the bottom of a milkshake, as Kakarot's plucking gave the almost sugary notes depth. And just when Vegeta was about to ask Tien what the hell his point was, the man began to play a melancholy tune, one that wrapped around the violinists like a tight ribbon.

It almost knocked him back, at how Tien had made the piece that much more evoking. What was something light and pretty became something sad and reaching. Like a voice crying out through the dark, wailing and begging and extending its hand for relief. _Help me!_ It sang, the fingers of its pleas beginning to wrap around Vegeta's neck until he struggled to breathe. _Help me find the way!_ _What can I do?_ Tien's eyes were closed, completely in a trance as he played without the aid of a written note, speaking without the aid of words. Something loud and something silent. Something dying and something awakening. The yin and the yang of a voice that Vegeta was starting to believe belonged to him.

It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard in his life.

Like a madman, completely zoned out in his own musical madness, he began to scribble down the notes Tien serenaded him with above the ones he had already printed. It was perfect… _too_ perfect. Why didn't he think of it? What kind of things had Tien gone through that made him create _that_? Was that…was that what Bulma saw in him?

….Would his own child see that in him too?

Would his child consider his father a genius? Would he or she look to Vegeta like a stubborn mule, only to find out his raw emotions lay at the podium? Would they count him a failure, wondering what their mother saw in him in the first place? Would they be patient with him? Would they forgive him of his own shortcomings? Would they…would they hate him for bringing them into a world full of chaos and calamity?

Would he ever stop hating himself if he repeated the sins of his past?

By the time Vegeta looked up from his sheet, his eyes were misty and his heart sank to his feet. The faces of his orchestra were drawn to Tien, looking into his soul to understand his cries. Tien deserved every bit of that first chair, damnit. He deserved to be a member of his orchestra, deserved to kiss these notes to life, deserved to have Vegeta make this change in his piece. Because what Tien didn't know was that while he was asking questions through his notes, Vegeta found his answers in them. And that's when Vegeta understood what was really being said. What was really adding to the piece.

It wasn't a conflict of light and darkness.

It was hope.

The hope that he needed.

The hope that even with the dismal tune of Tien's viola, the bright sun of the violin strings still carried him in the background. The heartbeat of Kakarot's bass thumped along, showing no signs of stopping, showing no indication that he would beat less until his mighty drum became silent. That somewhere in the middle of all of this pain and confusion existed a calm of tomorrow. Of a new sun. Yesterday's sins did not have to write tomorrow's tragedies.

….Goddamn Tien.

Tien dragged out one final note and held it with a subtle vibrato, his bow sliding gracefully from his strings until only silence remained. "So," he opened his eyes, a confident smile on his face, "What'd you think? Wait….why do you look so serious?"

Vegeta cleared his throat, composing himself in a way that concealed his internal truths from them. He rolled his sleeves to his elbow, glancing down to his scribbled piece on his conductor's stand. "It….It will suffice." Tien deserved more of a compliment than that, but Vegeta was touched. He didn't need to go too far in his good mannerisms.

"Whoa Tien!" Kakarot, the buffoon, barely held himself together by his bass, clearly going to express what Vegeta could not. "That was amazing! For you to have thought of that on the fly is really something! Please tell me you're going to use that, Vegeta. It'd be a shame to let that go to waste!"

"Yes, Mr. N'Ouija, I believe that was a fine piece indeed." An unfamiliar voice carried from behind him, sounding like it was intertwined with bells and whistles. Vegeta turned around as the door shut rather softly, a tall lanky man walking towards them with his hands folded behind his back. He removed his sunglasses and smiled at Vegeta, glancing at each and every member of the orchestra until he landed back on Vegeta. "I already thought it was good, but _my,_ it certainly _evolved_."

There was an air of respect that surrounded the man, from the tip of his pompadour to the shine of his black slacks, and Vegeta found himself prematurely admiring him without context. But still, who the hell was this guy and, more importantly, how did he get in here without anyone hearing him?

"Oh! Allow me to introduce myself, you've certainly got a face kissed by expression, Mr. N'Ouija, you look completely baffled by my presence." He bowed delicately at the center as if he were some angelic being sent by the gods. "My name is Whis, and I come to all of you fine people from the good artistes of Broadway."

"I knew it!" Chiaotzu whispered, although Vegeta could hear him clearly.

"Pardon my intrusion, but I just _had_ to sneak a peek at this grand concert you're having tomorrow. And I must say, I am _not_ disappointed." Whis spoke with such high regard that it made the members smile in a way that Vegeta hadn't seen before.

"I appreciate the compliment, Whis. My orchestra works very hard."

"My, my!" Whis threw his head back and laughed, his sharp shoulders bouncing up and down. "Your reputation certainly rings true. I've been told you are all business and more business. Such a polished and pristine answer. It's amazing you wrote that piece as emotionally open as you did."

Vegeta wasn't sure if he should've been insulted or complimented, but he did know that today was a day he was losing his _goddamned_ mind because he said: "My first chair violist, Tien, actually helped with that part. What you heard was an improved addition." He wanted to swallow it down, but decided to follow it up with: "One that will be permanently added."

"I see, how impressive of you, Tien." Whis's eyes drifted to the bald man's seat, who now sported a crimson blush across his cheeks in embarrassment. "It's quite the compliment to not have the conductor take all of the credit. It says a lot of how he feels about you all." Whis clasped his hands together as Vegeta stared down to his feet, unable to look at them while Whis painted the air in unspoken compliments. "This certainly changes things, that's for sure."

"Changes what?" Vegeta looked up in confusion, but was met with a chuckle bouncing off of Whis's back.

"No, no, much too soon for that. Let's just say I came here for one thing but it seems that just won't do. Your concert tomorrow night will confirm or deny my suspicions, but I _can_ tell you that this was certainly worth the trip." Whis walked to the door, his loafers clacking across the floor with every light step. He was as whimsical as they came, his entrance both short and weighted with things Vegeta knew he'd have to wait to find out. Before opening the door, he tossed his chin over his shoulder, looking at them all from the corner of his eye.

"There's something quite endearing about an orchestra that is willing to trust each other. Keeps things from getting too stuffy, too thought out. Our thoughts…they have the tendency to hold us back from living our truths. It's refreshing to see that your conductor allows open forums to improve a piece. I'm quite looking forward to your concert tomorrow." With that, Whis exited the building, floating out like a spirit sent to help instead of destroy. And that unknown advice got his brain ticking, putting together all of the pieces in this intricate puzzle.

He was going to be father. And he was going to be a better father than his own was.

Or…at least he hoped so.

He was going to wait on Nappa like he was instructed and like Bulma advised. And the plan that they concocted was _going_ to work.

Or…at least he hoped so.

….They were going to be alright. Everything was going to be alright.

…..He hoped so.

oooOOOooo

The multi colored stained glass windows of the galleria painted Vegeta's skin in shades of blues and reds and greens. It would've taken the focal point inside of the spacious building had Bulma's paintings not aligned the walls as a pleasant distraction.

"A little more to the left," she said behind him as he complied with her wishes, scooting the ladder to the left with his bottom weight. He held the painting up to where he thought she was talking about and turned to look at her. Her electric face beamed with satisfaction as she clasped her hands together. "Perfect, Vegeta! If you weren't a musician I'd have to paint you as an architect!" She rubbed her belly and beamed as she looked down, something she was growing more comfortable with doing since she had announced it to him. "Isn't that right, baby? Daddy sure has a good eye for things. After all, look who he picked to be your mommy."

"Hmph," he stepped down from the ladder and joined her at her side, taking a good look at his work. It was the last painting to hang in time for her galleria opening the next evening, which unfairly took place at the same time as his concert. "You're coddling them already, don't you think?"

"Mom told me she talked to me all the time when she was pregnant with me." She leaned against his arm and took a deep breath, probably getting a good whiff of cologne and sweat. "She said it helps to talk to your baby. Makes them grow up nice and smart."

"And probably a chatterbox," he wrapped an arm around her, enjoying the soft warmth that radiated from her these days. "They'll certainly get all of those traits from you, indeed."

At that she lightly elbowed him in the side. "Well with my luck the baby will be just as moody as you. Moody and talented and grumpy. I can't wait." She chuckled and wrapped her arms around his middle as they both looked at her painting. Vegeta remembered the night she painted this. It was one of those thunderstorms that cursed the day until the sky bled blue and purple, and now the night carried a soft lull of after rain. They had sat on the patio of his then apartment, drinking beers and listening to some of Vegeta's jazz vinyls. She couldn't tear her eyes off of him, he realized. He had finally understood _that_ look she sported when she was struck by an artistic muse, and she had it on her face as she looked at him. It didn't take her long to paint out a boy stepping on water, the sky mimicking the rainy one above them, his glowing cheeks stuffing bright orbs into his mouth. Vegeta was the first to admit he didn't understand completely why this boy looked so much like him, nor what he was eating. Bulma had stopped mid brush stroke, her cheeks tinted pink, and simply said:

"You look like you once swallowed stars for a living."

He didn't get it. But he was still touched.

So this painting, "The Boy Who Swallowed Stars," had become one of his favorites, for he felt it to be as complex and mysterious as himself. Bulma seemed to squeeze him a bit tighter, making him look down to her. Those eyes of hers, those pools that Vegeta felt like he could drown in, held him in a gaze that he had trouble breaking away from. He hoped to the gods that their child had her eyes. Those eyes would show the world its own flaws, he was sure of it.

"Bulma," he looked back to the wall, "Do you have to sell _that_ one?"

She followed his stare, smiling. "Are you embarrassed? Worried it looks too much like you and people will think you're something from a children's movie?"

"No," he huffed, rolling his eyes at her lame joke, "It's just that….I think it would be fitting to place that in a nursery above a crib. It's very soothing to look at."

Bulma leaned away from him, and he didn't have to look down to know that she was smiling prettily at him. "Wow, this is the first time I've heard you really talk about plans for the baby. Unless I bring it up, you don't at all. I was beginning to worry that you…" she trailed off, a guilty look spreading over her eyes until it reached the plumpness of her lips.

"That I what?" He guessed that perhaps he wasn't doing a great job like he thought of keeping her in the dark about his feelings.

"…That you regretted having a baby with me? I know that with everything going on it isn't _exactly_ the right time, but I don't know. It just seems so… _perfect._ Motherhood wasn't exactly something I'd thought about, not even when I hang around Chi Chi and Gohan, but having _your_ baby…well it would make me sick to think you didn't feel the same way."

It was in that moment that it all came crashing down for Vegeta.

Bulma was everything that the universe owed him. For every tear, for every sleepless night, for every argument with his father (and later himself) about his life. For all the wrongs, she was the rights. And how could he think for one second that this didn't make sense? How could he think that he wouldn't, _couldn't_ protect his family? For the first time in such a long time, Vegeta felt confident. Confident as he pulled her back closer to him, and confident that _fuck Frieza because he would keep them all safe._

"I can't promise I'll be perfect," he said in almost a whisper, his breaths spilling over the top of her head. "But I… _do_ want this. That might require patience with me as I figure out how to even become a father, but I won't let these 'threats' stand in our way."

"Thank you for telling me that. Now I know for sure." She unhooked him then, walking to the wall to grab her painting and handing it over to him. "I agree with you, this would go perfect over a baby's crib. That way he can always watch his daddy swallow stars."

"I still don't get it."

"You don't have to," she chuckled, "That's between me and this bean inside of my belly to get. We can make fun of you on Saturday mornings about it while you cook us pancakes."

"Hmph, who said _I_ was making pancakes?"

"I did. And a happy wife makes a happy life, right? Well I just so happen to be _very_ happy when you make me pancakes. And baby too." She rubbed her belly again and Vegeta decided he could watch her like that forever. Or at least for nine months.

"What will you put there instead for people to buy?" The wall seemed empty now without this one in its place, like a hole begging to be filled. "This is all of your available paintings, correct?"

She shrugged her shoulders, already turning her back to worrying about it. She sure was admirable in that regard. Vegeta, ever the perfectionist, could not rest until everything was pristine and tidy. But Bulma looked like it was no big deal. "I'll figure it out. Maybe I'll stand here all night and no one will notice there's a huge space missing. Or, even better, I'll find a nice mister to take me home since my own beloved will be across town at his concert. I'm sad I'll miss the first part."

"If any man even looks like he wants to take you home you'd better start prepping for his funeral. And you'll still get to see the second half. I hope you're not upset that I won't be able to make your grand opening."

She shook her head and looked like she meant it, her curls bouncing around her face. "One of my favorite parts of this relationship is that you get to have your dreams while I have mine and neither of us make each other feel upset about it. Lucky kid, having two supportive parents like that. Yamcha and I would've driven them _nuts_."

"With his scatterbrains, the child would probably be just as goofy. And goofy looking too."

"Hey play nice," her face grew serious for a moment before lightening completely, "I know you'll do great. From what you told me about that Whis guy, he seems to be pretty impressed with you. I know that he'll hire you on and then I can say that I'm the future wife of a Broadway musician. Frieza is going to be rotting in a cell _wishing_ that he hadn't tried to screw you over."

It amazed him that since he had decided to collaborate with her and Nappa on these plans of how optimistic she became. Everything was centered around things going smoothly, as if failure wasn't at all an option. He wasn't sure if it was her pregnancy or her good nature, but either way it helped keep him afloat so he appreciated it. He let that appreciation show as he gathered her in for another hug, pressing his lips down to hers. Vegeta N'Oujia, musician and family man. Who would've thought?

"Everything's going to be just fine, Vegeta," she smiled at him when he pulled his face apart from hers, "And I can't wait to be on the other side of it with you."

There was so much truth to her words then that it gave him more of a backbone. And as he captured her lips again, he could only think:

"I sure hope so."

oooOOOooo

"Did anyone happen to see if Whis was watching us out there?"

Krillin loosened his tie a bit from his neck, taking a deep breath when he was allowed the extra breathing room. Vegeta glanced over at him for his question, ready to bark out that Whis being at this concert should be the least of his concerns. They had made it through the first half just fine, but the second half -with Tien's newly added viola section- was still to come. Considering that they had less than twenty-four hours to rehearse it to Vegeta's standards and well, he wasn't exactly colored in confidence.

"It was too hard to tell, man," Yamcha accepted a water bottle from Kakarot and chugged it, "It's so dark out there when those bright lights are all in our faces."

"You guys remember yesterday, right?" Kakarot laughed as he threw his own water bottle back, finishing it entirely in a matter of gulps. "He sounded so excited! I'm certain he's out there cheering us on!"

"I hope so," Krillin completed the trifecta by screwing the cap off of a bottle and taking a sip, "This is the best concert we've played so far and it'd be a shame if he didn't catch all of it. Guess I'm just really nervous. But you seem really put together, Vegeta. You must be the most confident of all of us."

They all turned to him then as he leaned against the back wall, his face scowling in reply. Not that he would ever admit it, but inside Vegeta was anything _expect for_ confident. After all, unbeknownst to everyone in attendance, this night carried a lot more than job offers and big city dreams.

Somewhere out there in the audience with a stupid grin on his ugly face, sat Frieza.

He was probably sleeping in the shadows so that maybe Vegeta would think he didn't show at all. Unlike Krillin and the others, Vegeta _had_ peered into the audience several times when he could, stealing a glance over the heads of men, women and children. He thought he noticed Whis somewhere out there, but he could neither confirm nor deny it, not bothering to care since Whis wasn't the one with a price over his head. But no one out there even looked like Frieza, making Vegeta wonder when he was going to bother to show up and collect his dues.

"Speaking of Vegeta, isn't Bulma coming tonight?" Yamcha's face did not appear as cool and collected as his tone, his features squinting as soon her name rolled off of his lips. "I saw her a few days ago and she said she would see us tonight after her gallery opening. Can't imagine her missing it."

Vegeta was _thiiiis_ close to telling Yamcha to mind his own fucking business, but at the mention of it he realized Bulma _was_ late. Afterall, she had told him this morning before she kissed him goodbye that she would be waiting in the backroom during intermission. It was possible that the gallery went on further than expected -unsurprising, of course, given her talent and texts of buyers all afternoon- but she would've (and could've) called. Not that he had any room to talk, though. It wasn't as if he was at her opening with bells on.

"I'm sure she's coming," Kakarot stretched that dumb grin of his that made Vegeta gag, "There's no way she wouldn't be here for Vegeta! 'Specially with everything on the line!"

Kakarot might have been a dolt, but he was right, and for more reasons than he could begin to think. Bulma was aware of what Nappa instructed everyone to do ( _Go on about the night as if it's just a regular night. Don't draw any attention to yourselves, but lure Frieza to the alley. Stall from there, I'll take care of the rest)_ and knew there was no way that she would leave him hanging. He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked for his signal, frowning when he realized he had full strength. No missed calls, and no text messages since thirty minutes into the concert telling him that she sold a piece for five hundred dollars. He'd give her a little while longer, but his fingers itched to call her and at least find out her eta.

"Are you excited for this next half, Tien?" Krillin took a seat on one of the chairs that littered the cramped hallway, "I bet people are going to tear up when they hear your revision."

"You think so?" Tien scratched his head, glancing temporarily at Vegeta before focusing back on Krillin. "It was just something swimming around in my head, I never thought it would have hit it off with you guys like that."

"Vegeta was surely affected," Krillin tried to whisper, although _extremely_ unsuccessful at it, "It looked like he was going to cry right then and there. Eighteen did a perfect impression of it later on, I'd never laughed so hard in my life."

"I heard that!" Vegeta balled his fists, irritated that the nerve-pressing Eighteen was rubbing off on her short boyfriend. Krillin covered his mouth like a toddler who had just let out a curse word while Tien snorted a chuckle. They had better have been glad that they were so damned talented, because their mouths surely called for his foot up their asses.

"Well thanks, Krillin. I really appreciate it. I hope you're right, maybe Whis will hire me directly!" He laughed at his severely unfunny joke, but honestly Vegeta wouldn't have been surprised if he _did_ offer Tien some sort of deal. The man was first chair and was about to pull the audience in with his performance, so it wasn't exactly impossible. But once again, whether or not Tien got some fancy schmancy title was none of his concern. Frieza, however, was.

In that moment, his cellphone rang, Bulma's infectious glimmer in her eyes lighting up his screen. He smiled then, prepared to give her a little hell for being late, but also excited to hear how her evening went. After all, like she had said the day prior, it was one of the perks of their relationship. The fact that they both allowed each other the creative room to flourish meant that she had blossomed from a basement painter to a brag worthy artist in her own right.

He walked to the empty end of the hallway and accepted the call, not even bothering to wait for her to say hello. "If you miss the second half, I know how you can make it up to me later. It's still early on for you so we might as well have all the fun we can." He smiled deviously on his end, waiting to hear whatever slick rebuttal would fall from her vulgar lips.

Instead, he was met with silence.

The static of the phone was like a mosquito in his ear, taunting him instead of her voice. Her name was about to roll off of his tongue, some clever, naughty reply about to follow suit, when a shrill laugh knocked on the door to his eardrum. It made his blood run cold, his feet instantly freezing in place.

"Well, _well,_ Vegeta! I had no idea you were such a dirty man. Please, won't you continue on what you have planned for her?"

Vegeta's tongue dried up, the saliva in his mouth easily being replaced by cotton balls. If he would've only remembered to breathe, he might've been able to follow up with a reply or _something_. But everything in his world turned to grey, and Vegeta thought in that moment that he had died.

_Bulma…Bulma no!_

"Oh-ho! Cat your tongue, my sweet Vegeta? I think it's very rude to ignore a request from me, wouldn't you agree?" Laughter again except this time it was more menacing, more throaty and less gleeful. Vegeta licked his lips and tried to find his voice, blocking out any background noise until it became white.

"Fr…Frieza…" Just saying his name made him feel like his life was flashing before his eyes, like his soul had been sucked out by the devil himself. "What did you do to her? Where is she!? Where is Bulma!?"

"Oh my! I never thought a N'Ouija could actually _love_ something so much!" Frieza said the word as if it absolutely disgusted him, as if the mere concept was some vile sin. "It makes for quite the little number in my stage play, don't you think?"

"You'd better not hurt her, Frieza! So help me gods, if even _one_ hair on her head is touched—"

"You'll _what_?" Frieza's tone fell flat, more threats and challenges laced in those two words than Vegeta had ever heard in his entire life. "Watch it Vegeta or I _will_. Ask your father, I don't take kindly to being _threatened_."

Vegeta swallowed, trying to compose himself so that he didn't compromise Bulma. _Please be okay, Bulma!_

"Don't worry, I haven't touched her. And whether or not I do all depends on you. You see, I've been watching you, Vegeta. And it doesn't look to me like you've made your pockets any fatter since our last discussion. I was beginning to think you weren't taking this seriously, so I decided to take a little collateral, is all. It isn't as if you have any children that could service me in your leave of absence, understood?"

"Collateral?" Did….Did Frieza _know_? Did he know about the plan? Was…

….was

….Was Bulma going to die?

"Oh, it seems like this angel wants to talk to you!" Frieza moved the phone away from his mouth, and Vegeta could hear muffled screams on the other end. It was her, he thought with a choked back sob, and he bit his fist to keep his mouth from running wild. "Talk to your dear, dear Vegeta, love. But he hasn't got all day! The second half of his show is starting soon!"

"Bulma!" He shouted in the receiver, barely keeping himself together. She had to have had her mouth gagged, for he wasn't able to hear her clearly, but her screams suggested she was shouting his name. He could….he could taste her fear. He could hear her cries through the phone and it _broke_ him. His knees buckled and he had to lean against the wall for composure.

He was supposed to protect her. And now she played right into hands of the enemy.

"Bulma! I won't let them hurt you! I'm sorry! I'll get you back-"

"Aah, aah, aah! You shouldn't make promises you don't know if you'll be able to keep." Frieza brought the phone back to his ear, Bulma's screaming growing louder in the background. Frieza sighed in annoyance before adding, "Zarbon do something with her, would you? She's quite noisy and I'm _trying_ to make a phone call."

Vegeta felt the bottom of his stomach fall to his feet as Bulma's sobbing increased in fear, screaming at someone to back off. To back away. To stop.

He wanted to throw up.

"Don't you dare, Frieza!" But then she let out one final wail and the background was silent. An undeniable rage soared through his body at Frieza and at himself. Bulma…How could he have left her alone? How could he have jeopardized her? Jeopardized their child?

"I don't recall saying that you had any power moves on my chessboard, Vegeta. How about I rush things along here, I'm growing bored with this conversation." He yawned and Vegeta wanted to kill him. "You go out there and play your second half of this concert. And when you're done, meet me in the alley in back with _all_ of my cash. Plus a fifteen percent inconvenience fee for having to get my hands dirty tonight. Your whore here got paint on my new shoes and I don't take kindly to it. Oh, and Vegeta? You'd better be prompt. No funny business. I've had the blood of your family on my hands for some time now, I have no problems adding more." And before Vegeta could say anything else, Frieza hung the phone up in his ear, an empty silence the only thing left behind.

The walls begun to distort their color, the edges of his vision going black. Bulma…his Bulma….she…

Vegeta couldn't win against gravity anymore as he sank to his feet, releasing the sobs of rage that burned the inside of his throat. How did everything turn to shit like this? How did everything seem like it was looking up only to drag him back down?

_Everything's going to be alright, Vegeta._

Bulma…

She was wrong.

Everything wasn't going to be alright.

Vegeta choked back a scream as he bathed in the knowledge that all of his hope had indeed, been turned into hell.

oooOOOooo

_A/N_

_Thank you SO much to everyone for their reviews on this story! I'm so happy that you're still here in the final stretches with me!_

_Vegetapsycho did some AMAZING fanart for Concerto (Im still SCREAMING ITS SO GOOD!) and you can check it out on her Tumblr and Instagram! It's so beautiful just like every single one of her pieces are, just like our dear friend Bulma in this fic._

_Thank you for everyone who has given me fanart or a review! It makes my day and I hope you'll leave one for this chapter as well!_

_Until next time!_


	25. Tick Tock

_**Concerto Twenty Five: Tick Tock** _

**oooOOOooo**

As soon as his hands circled closed, as soon as the last note hung against the curves of the ceiling, Vegeta bolted out of the back door and into the alleyway.

The silence of the night clung to him like a damp blanket. It was almost like the stars teased him from above as they shone down, illuminating the eerily empty alleyway. Vegeta's heart beat so fast he had to clutch his chest, struggling to catch up to the breaths that spilled from his mouth.

_Bulma…_

He was a fool. A modern day fucking fool. He had known since day one of admitting how much he truly cared for Bulma that this was always a possibility. That she could, at any point in time, become a pawn for Frieza to dangle over Vegeta's head whenever he saw fit. Knew that being with her was a risk, that falling openly in love with her was a risk….but like the idiot that he was, he fell. He let her delicate fingers soothe his tired soul until he felt a rebirth, let her honeyed words fall over him like a prayer, and now he so desperately needed one of those things himself. It wasn't fair, he thought as he walked down the other end of the alleyway briskly, that his reason for living was in the hands of his enemy. That this was the ultimate confirmation that good things just did not happen for him.

That he just wasn't allowed to be happy.

No sign of Frieza still. Vegeta felt like a fucking joke. Probably….probably was the butt of Frieza's joke, too. With a lumpy swallow of rage, he let his mind drift to the worst, wondering if Bulma and their child were even alive now. If Zarbon had delivered a fatal blow to her while they were on the phone and Frieza was using the excuse of her being alive as a higher leverage in this situation. Not as if he _needed_ to do that anyways; he'd already managed to swift kick Vegeta hard in the nuts the second he admitted to having Bulma in his iron grip.

…What if Frieza wasn't even here because he was too busy cleaning her blood off of his shoe?

Panicking, Vegeta pulled out his cellphone and scrolled down his call log, jabbing Nappa's name as soon as it flashed on his screen. Each chirp that rang in his ear hurt worse than the last, making Vegeta go mad with anxiety. "Come on, pick up Nappa!" He grit through his teeth, his upper lip foaming with sweat.

Finally on what should've been the last ring before voicemail, Nappa's impatient tone whispered through the phone. "Vegeta why are you calling me? I'm holding on to my end of the plan, but you're supposed to be meeting with Frieza!"

"They've got her, Nappa," he choked out, barely able to say the words without his knees feeling like they wanted to give out entirely.

Nappa's deep breathing stilled then, the phone static growing quiet at Vegeta's confession. "…Shit," he responded after a while, everything about his tone sounding as defeated as Vegeta felt. "Shit….shit... _no_. Goddamnit!" There was a soft thud in the background indicating that Nappa slammed his fist on something, a long sigh following soon after. "I'm so sorry Vegeta, this was something I didn't see coming. When you said that she had her gallery opening tonight, I considered us lucky. Thought that she'd at least be safe way across town. Now I realize how fucking dumb that is. She was all alone….she should have been in your care or came with me…I'm a fucking idiot for not seeing that loophole, _shit_!"

"It wouldn't have mattered," Vegeta said, feeling a well of what he assumed to be a cry bubbling in his chest, "If Frieza intended to get her, she'd always be gotten. He knows how to look through the cracks when no one else is paying attention. It's…..it's all my fault for damning her in the first place."

"Hey, hey now stop that," Nappa was still whispering, but his authoritative and fatherly tone seeped through his words. "That woman loves you and you love her back, and despite whatever the hell's going on right now, you _need_ that in your life. So how's about we focus on that instead of you doing the guilt trip thing? Use some of that tenacity and get her _and_ your unborn child back, damnit! We still haven't lost!"

Vegeta nodded despite Nappa unable to see him, afraid that if he said her name he would crumple into a pile of dust. "How…how is it on your end?" His shaky voice struggled to find stability, but he managed to choke the words out anyways.

"Good," Nappa sounded optimistic as he said it, making Vegeta feel somewhat relieved, "For the most part anyways. Despite this chip having all of this information on it, the detectives are moving slowly. Fine combing every piece of evidence they can find with precision. They really want to put Frieza away for good and I guess it hasn't been…. _easy_ for them before. I thought they'd be done by now," Nappa trailed off, sounding extremely irritated, but he took a deep breath and appeared to calm himself. "It shouldn't be much longer. Whatever you can do Vegeta, I need you to _stall_ , okay? I don't care if you have to dance around and sing some stupid song to distract him, keep that motherfucker occupied until I get there."

"I'll do whatever it takes," he said, uneasily of course. _Stalling_ wasn't the problem. If…If Bulma was dead, then it didn't matter how long Vegeta distracted Frieza, didn't matter if Nappa came through or not. Nothing else mattered if he couldn't hold her lively body in his arm after all of this.

_If we make it through this, I want to marry you._

His words hit him like a freight train, his eyes misting as the question of 'will I even be able to see her walk towards me down the aisle?' popped in his mind. He prayed to whoever was in the sky above them that he could see her in that dress, could see his child being held in her arms in a hospital bed, could see the family he so desperately wanted more than anything else. Fuck this concert, fuck this orchestra, _fuck him_ , just gods _please_ let Bulma and their baby be alright.

"Have faith, Vegeta," Nappa answered his unspoken request, "I just know everything is going to be all right. Don't…Don't give up on me. I failed our family once, I refuse to let it happen. And maybe I don't say this enough cause you and me aren't the sentimental types but…I…me and Natsumi…well…we love ya, alright? You're…ahh to hell with it. You're the only son I've ever known, even if you aren't _that_ much younger than me. I'm saying all of that to say: I'd do anything for you. And I know how much Bulma means to you; the changes that are a result of you finally being happy are too obvious to miss. So by extension she's my family too. And we'll _both_ protect her, okay? I won't fail you Vegeta, not this time."

Nappa's words held such conviction that Vegeta was inclined to believe them like they were scriptures. The optimism in his voice was infectious, almost as believable as Bulma when she spoke to him at the gallery. Nappa was right; they hadn't lost yet and despite the overwhelming gloom around them, he still had a chance to get her back. To win this. To get vengeance for his family. To make them proud.

It was his pride as a N'Ouija, after all. And N'Ouija's, if nothing else, weren't quitters.

"Thank you, Nappa," Vegeta responded, hoping his uncle could see his affection that slept under the gratification. "I will trust you. I will listen to you and trust that you'll come through, for her sake. I…I just want her back, Nappa. I need her back."

"I know son," Nappa's voice was calm and even again, like soothing waters in the middle of a still forest. "And we will. Just…be careful. As much as you want her back, I know for certain that she wants you back too. And me as well. Listen, I have to go but if you run into trouble send me an SOS. Don't try to be the hero when I have a cape too, alright? I'll see you soon."

"Loud and clear," Vegeta said, hanging up the phone and depending on Nappa with the faith of the religious. He stared at the blinking name until it dissolved completely, his screen turning black when it was finished. A cool nightly breeze wafted through his hair and gave him a small sense of renewed hope. Bulma…his Bulma…

From the bricked walls of the theater, Vegeta could hear the noisy musicians celebrating their victorious finish. The end of the concert had been perfect, even with Vegeta's struggling mental health. Tien brought the theater to silence, and when the piece concluded they stood and clapped as if they were pouring their souls into their applause. His musicians they…they deserved it. They deserved all of this. They were the most talented people Vegeta had run into during his entire career, and despite that he wasn't always kind to them, he relied on them so much. Even Yamcha. They all deserved to know what it felt like to be the best, to be loved and celebrated for simply sharing their craft with the world. He hoped they rode on airs right now. He hoped they felt the complete opposite of him. In that moment, with his heart heavy and his emotions out of synch, he hoped that someday all of their dreams came true.

And most importantly, he hoped that when those dreams did come true that they would still call him their conductor. That no matter where their musical wings flew them to, that they'd still call his orchestra home. Vegeta wished for this and for Bulma so desperately that his teeth chattered. He just…he just needed the normalcy to return like a lost love.

The clacking of shoes from behind him brought him out of his thoughts and made him turn around with the reflexes of a cat. His stomach dropped and his defenses heightened as he laid eyes on the intruder, that stupid, soft featured face smirking under the lights on the building.

"Come now, is there a need for the hostility?" Zarbon raised his hands to show he wasn't a threat, but all Vegeta could hear was Bulma's screams as he did whatever he had done to her. Vegeta's eyes flashed red, his fingers itching to wrap themselves around Zarbon's throat until his skin bled green. But remembering Nappa's words he clenched and unclenched his fists, trying his damndest to stay on task. "She isn't _dead_ Vegeta. Maybe not exactly as unsullied physically as you remember her, but definitely alive."

"Where's Frieza?" Vegeta barked, unable to grant Zarbon any conversation. He searched his eyes for the truth of Bulma's condition, and reluctantly began to accept that perhaps Zarbon was being honest. He still refused to lower his guard, though.

"Well you certainly get to the chase, don't you? He's not fucking stupid, Vegeta. You have an entire orchestra behind you and lots of witnesses. Surely this wouldn't be the best place for business discussions. Too many bodies in one place has never been Frieza's bag, he's much too clean for that. And so am I." Zarbon ruffled around with his green blazer, as obnoxiously colored as that ridiculous hair of his, and smiled a feigned innocent grin towards Vegeta. "Take a ride with me. You might just find what you're looking for."

Zarbon offered no room for protests as he turned then, walking towards the end of the alleyway to a black truck. From where he stood , Vegeta could see Dodoria behind the wheel, his eyes focused straight on the road in front of him. It would've been so easy for Vegeta to just do it now. Just take Zarbon out when he wasn't looking. But then he'd never get to Bulma. And Frieza really put a fucking wrench in his plans by switching locations when Nappa was supposed to come _here_. But life always called for adaptability, and Vegeta refused to stay dormant. Using the brief window of opportunity, he stuffed the phone into the pocket of his suit jacket and unlocked the screen, pressing the call icon to go to the last dialed number. And then he pressed Nappa's name, letting it dial and turning down his phone volume.

"So where are we going Zarbon?" He called out to the man when he was sure Nappa picked up, making his voice sound concerned and as if the question was valid. "Since Frieza wants to have a change of scenery, I can't imagine that this doesn't end in my death."

"Don't be so melodramatic, Vegeta," Zarbon stopped and said over his shoulder, his tone sounding slightly insulted. "If Frieza wanted you dead right now, then we wouldn't be having this conversation. Get in the car and you'll see where we're headed. I hope you like the view of docks, it'll make for one hell of a show."

Zarbon thought he was being clever. There wasn't a single cliché action movie that Vegeta had seen where bad guys plus a dock didn't equal death and dismay. But stupid fucking Zarbon played right into his trap. There were only two docks in the neighboring cities, and while they were a good half hour away, it was easy to rule out which one they'd be visiting. If Frieza was calling the shots, he'd be doing it on his own turf, wouldn't he? And there was a very large, very indistinguishable dock that was _very_ close to Frieza's lair. Which meant Nappa could use that information to pinpoint the whereabouts exactly.

_I'm leaving it to you, Nappa. I'll do what I can._

And with that, Vegeta strolled after Zarbon, hoping that the cosmos would align themselves in his favor for once.

oooOOOooo

The moon was exceptionally big as it hung in the sky, slightly growing with the shade of red. It's reflection waved around in the waters on the other side of the high fence, but it was almost blocked out by tall crates and crane machines on the wooden dock. Every inch of the spacious port was covered by machines and boxes and all types of industrial mumbo jumbo. Vegeta almost gave Frieza props for picking a good spot where they all could be virtually undetected. _Almost_.

His Oxfords collided the wood boards and made a hollow sound of music as they walked towards the lone pier, and Vegeta's stomach sank as he saw Frieza's disgusting grin gleaming at him under the moon's rays. He looked so content, so pleased with himself and his cruel torture of Vegeta's heart. Dodoria turned around once to taunt Vegeta once Frieza was in sight, almost to say " _You lose, asshole,"_ but Vegeta refused to bite his bait. His eyes pressed forward as his brows drew into a look of concentration, his lips pressed into a tight, frigid line.

Frieza stood next to his limo, his hands folded neatly behind his back. His white suit stood out among the blackness, making him seem like some god without the fanfare. It made Vegeta sick.

Once they were in talking distance, Frieza began to laugh sinisterly, clearly being entertained by the punchline of a joke no one had told. But Zarbon and Dodoria -the fucking lapdogs that they were- joined in on his chuckling like they were all chummy pals telling jokes over brews. Vegeta found none of it funny.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Frieza unclasped his hands and rose them in the air on either side of him, bowing slightly in the trios direction, "The final act has begun! I do hope you enjoy the show!"

Vegeta bit the inside of his jaw down to keep from responding to Frieza's taunts, but he was sure his face said everything it needed to. After throwing a long, cold glare towards him, Frieza threw his head back and laughed to the sky, the arrogance of his tone raining down on them like thunder. That son of a bitch. "Why, I've never seen you look so _serious!_ Your father sported that same look once upon a time, you know. You both are like little circus monkeys, just doing whatever you want until it's time to be tamed. How about you call me your tamer, Vegeta?"

Vegeta grit his teeth and didn't care if Frieza saw him do it or not. At this point the only thing that mattered was Bulma's safety and Nappa's listening skills. At one point during the car ride, he heard Nappa snort through his pocket, but covered it up with a cough of his own. Zarbon and Dodora seemed to be none the wiser, but he hoped Nappa had picked up on it to at least mute his fucking phone. At least he knew that his uncle could hear them, and with the detectives present, he knew also that his location could be tracked.

"Where is she?" Vegeta managed, his tone low and threatening and uncaring. "Where is Bulma, Frieza?"

Frieza blinked at him slowly before his thin purple lips, painted with purple lipstick, curved upwards to meet his cheeks. "Well well, I didn't think _you_ had the right to demand the 'where's', Vegeta. After all, it is _I_ who should be wondering where is _my_ revenue?"

"It's coming," he thought of on the fly, hoping that Frieza would buy it. "That's too much cash to carry around, and I had to make a last minute business deal to gather the rest. My contact said he would text me when everything is ready to go."

Frieza's face fell to an impatient glare, his eyes cutting dangerously sharp towards Vegeta. For the first time since seeing him, Vegteta felt an uneasy chill run through his body. He covered it up to never show his weakness, and it must have worked. Frieza returned to his grin, albeit a forced one, and nodded in his direction. "So we play the waiting game, is it? Lucky for you, Vegeta, I'm a very patient man. However, I don't believe in idle time. It is the devil's playtime, you know they say."

 _You mean_ _ **your**_ _playtime?_ Vegeta thought but didn't speak, swallowing down the slick comeback as soon as it penetrated his brain. He kept silent as Frieza stepped closer to Zarbon and Dodoria, both of which who turned to face Vegeta and stood at Frieza's right and left sides, respectively.

"How's about we talk business then, since you deliberately disobeyed me and did not have my money in the time manner of which I allowed it. Since it is Zarbon's birthday and all, I might be feeling a bit… _generous_."

"Thank you very much for the remembrance, my Lord," Zarbon sounded every bit as grateful as his words indicated, a cheerful smile on his face. "Serving you is the best present one could have."

Frieza turned to Zarbon and put a hand over his chest, some off-putting look of affection stealing his face. "How delightful to hear, Zarbon. Do you see, Vegeta?" He turned around to him and tucked his hands behind his back again, "Working for me isn't _awful_. I treat my minions right and they respect me. It's only when rules aren't in compliance that I have to… _take action_. I'm sure you understand where I'm coming from, don't you? After all, you are a leader yourself."

"It's hardly the same," he forced out, biting down on his bottom row of teeth in aggravation. "I'm a leader; you're a _manipulator_."

Frieza's face, much to Vegeta's concealed glee, turned down in anger and his eyes carried the weight of a threat. "Dodoria, would you agree with him?"

Dodoria smirked at Vegeta, running his beady eyes up and down his body like he was nothing more than a toothpick to clean his teeth with. "Oh come now, boss. I don't listen to what could be the final words of a dead man. They talk all crazy and stuff; I see it all the time."

Vegeta swallowed. Frieza flashed his 'I-gained-the-upper-hand-again' grin.

"Now now, let's give the circus monkey some credit, shall we boys? He hasn't listened to my offer yet." He stepped forward a few paces, inches away from being able to reach out and touch Vegeta if he wanted. Vegeta fought the urge to either step back or defend, and he discovered that staying in place and not even _trying_ to make a move on Frieza was the hardest action he'd taken all night. After all, Bulma still wasn't in his sight to observe.

"I'll give you one last chance, Vegeta. And I hope you're smarter than your dear _daddy_." Frieza squared his shoulders back, taking on an entirely new persona. More businesslike. More calculated. "Work for me. You can still have your orchestra, can still have your fame and your gifts and all of that jazz- no pun intended. But push my product to your peers. That Broadway man came to see you -Whis, was it? From what my birds tell me, you're a sure fire winner in his 'find-the-musician' game. All of that power, all of that influence. Pardon me if I'm having trouble not being able to see anything but dollar signs all over that idea. Say that you'll do it and the money is forgotten. You can leave here and celebrate with your loved ones like you rightfully should. Whatever loved ones you have left, anyways."

If Vegeta ever had doubts that words alone could produce bile in his throat, Frieza just all but confirmed that with his speech.

Vegeta searched the depths of his belly for the most honest conviction that he could muster, and once he did, he compiled them together to coat his tongue so that Frieza and the gang could hear him out _clearly_. "There is nothing," he spoke slowly, " _Nothing_ , that could _ever_ make me work for you. Not after what you've done to me, to my girlfriend, and to my family. I hope there's a special place in hell for you to rot Frieza, because only the dancing of the wicked will hypnotize you into believing that I ever would."

Vegeta may not have been able to make a solid move just yet, but damn it all if that didn't feel _good_.

Frieza laughed again, although most of the gusto was removed. "Funny you mention that, this _girlfriend_ of yours. Because when you say nothing will change your mind, I just have a hard time believing you're telling me the truth." He stared at Vegeta long and hard before parting those vile lips of his again. "Zarbon, would you do me the honors?"

Zarbon nodded and Vegeta had the pleasure of watching the bastard smile at him wickedly before walking to limo and opening the back door. When the door was shut, Vegeta's stomach fell to his feet for all the right reasons….and for a good chunk of the wrong ones.

Bulma…she…she _was_ alive. Her hands were bound behind her back and tape over her mouth. He assumed she was gagged under there too, because her cheeks were puffy against the duct tape. What made Vegeta want to kill them all, however, was the purple and brown looking spot under her eye, a dried trail of blood racing from the top of her hairline to just under her chin.

How…how…how _dare_ they? Touch _his_ Bulma? _Hurt_ her? If this…if this world wasn't real…if this was some silly teen show…Vegeta was sure that in that moment he could've powered up to some great, godlike being and destroyed them all with a flick of his pinky. As relieved and grateful that he was that she was alive and conscious, he couldn't help the rage that bubbled inside of him at her marred face.

"Bulma…." He whispered, unable to hold back the affection that cuddled the syllables of her name. She looked over to him, those crystal eyes of hers that he loved so much twinkling in recognition. They looked just as relieved as he felt, her love for him shining in her sapphires like a starving man begging for food. He could also see her pleas for him to save her and she mumbled his name back, her tone wet with tears.

_I swear to all of the gods, Bulma, that I'll get us out of here. I'll get all three of us out of here._

"Well isn't that precious?" Frieza looked back and forth between them, feigning a look of admiration. "I suppose true love exists after all! Here the both of you are with your lives barely registered in the foreseeable future, and you're all but _eye fucking_ each other in front of us!" His expression straightened out to that of a brick and his tone hardened as he added, his words clipped: "How. Sweet."

"She has nothing to do with this Frieza," Vegeta hoped that Nappa was on the way, that any moment they would hear the sirens that would put this whole mess to bed. "Just let her go."

"Oh, the contrary, Vegeta!" He raised one lone finger in the air and carried the look of a child who was about to correct an adult, " She has _everything_ to do with this. After all, what good is a pawn if you don't know its weakness! And do you want to know something interesting about weaknesses? Your sweet, precious love here tried to _reason_ with me! Asked me to be gentle with her because she's _pregnant_! My, I certainly believe congratulations are in order! The proud parents to be!" He clapped slowly and Zarbon and Dodoria followed suit. Vegeta's eyes were thrown open wide as they met Bulma's, her own wet with tears and apologizing. Shit… _shit!_ That was the last fucking thing Frieza needed to know! He couldn't be mad at Bulma for the slip up, after all she was just playing her trump card, but _SHIT!_

"So Vegeta, still think there's _nothing_ you won't do?" Frieza nodded to Zarbon, and Vegeta watched in horror as he yanked her arm forcefully behind her back, making Bulma scream out in pain, her eyes going wide and looking towards the stars. Vegeta grunted loudly, one foot stepping slightly in front of the other. Frieza laughed from the pit of his belly. "My, I _love_ that song! It _never_ grows old! So what'll be, circus monkey? My offer or your girlfriend and child? Choose wisely. Either you all walk out of here alive or only _you_ will. Who says your death _has_ to be today? But Ms. Briefs and baby won't have that luxury. _Tick. Tock._ "

Fucking hells! Vegeta panicked inside, his stomach rolling around as he thought desperately. Working for Frieza _and_ Frieza knowing he has a child on the way? He would be signing himself up to repeat his father's mistakes without doubt! Bulma and their baby would win in this decision for sure…but then what? Bulma screamed again, and Vegeta held his breath as he thought that he would watch her being hit by Zarbon, but instead she was shaking her head _no_!, tears racing down her face as her eyes pleaded with him. How could she be so selfless at a time like this!? Didn't she know… didn't she know that living just wasn't living if _she_ wasn't in it!?

Frieza clicked his teeth and looked behind his shoulder at Zarbon and Bulma. "I don't recall making this an open forum for opinion. Zarbon, be a dear and teach them both a lesson, would you? Make sure he learns to make a hurried decision, and make sure _she_ learns to _shut the fuck up_." Zarbon snorted, yanking Bulma around to his front.

And with sickening horror, as time seemed to all but stop, Vegeta watched as Zarbon lifted a powerful leg and drove it home into Bulma's belly. She screamed out a piercing wail that was unlike her previous ones, her body falling on its knees to the wooden boards. She writhed in pain, crying out in such a desperate plea that Vegeta felt his heart rip in half.

And then he fucking lost it.

Screw the fucking plan, screw Nappa's advice. Zarbon had officially crossed the fucking _line_. With an adrenaline rush that was unlike anything he had felt before, Vegeta ran past Dodoria, ran past Frieza and bolted to the tall, effeminate man. By the time Zarbon's face twisted to confusion, Vegeta's fist made direct contact with that plastic, sculpted nose of his.

Vegeta had never considered himself a fighter. Sure, when he was younger his fists kept any bullies away that thought he might be weak due to his choice in hobbies. But that was to the average joe schmoe, certainly not to thugs like these. But somewhere inside of him was something powerful and dormant, and he tapped into that strength as he sat on top of Zarbon and gave him the wailing of his life.

Dodoria's strong arm flung Vegeta off of Zarbon and onto his back, but he quickly composed himself and shot up, delivering a forceful punch to Dodoria too. Zarbon groaned on the ground, unable to move as he cradled his face, blood oozing from his fingers and onto his white shirt. Vegeta ducked a heavy (but far from proficient) punch from Dodoria and managed to get a swift, weighted kick to the nuts in, making the fat slob cover his privates and sink to his knees. And then Vegeta knocked him over, delivering the same blows to Dodoria as Zarbon. A happy birthday to the fucker indeed with the gift that kept on giving.

He felt powerful, in that moment. All of his frustrations poured from his fists to Dodoria's fleshy face, and it felt so damned good. His mother, Tarble, his father, _Bulma_ -all of it came out of him like this beating was therapy. He couldn't stop, not even when Dodoria placed his hands up in retreat. How many times did his victims beg? That his mother and brother begged? And how many times did Dodoria listen? Show mercy?

 _Zero,_ Vegeta thought as he packed a final punch to the center of Dodoria's face, completely knocking him out cold. He hopped over to do the same to Zarbon when Bulma's shrieking woke him back to reality, his fists mere inches from Zarbon's bloody face.

He turned then, his eyes growing wide as he took the scene in from behind him. His flaring nostrils retained their rhythm, his body frozen in action. Frieza, with a frustrated and wild expression possessing his features, held Bulma against his chest, her back to his and his arm looped under her breasts. And at her temple, against her pretty, matted sky kissed hair, was a gun.

"You think you're clever, Vegeta!? DO YOU?!" Frieza spat, saliva pooling around the corners of his mouth. He looked like a rabid dog ready to strike. "Beat up my best men, will you? Clearly you have forgotten WHO THE FUCK I AM!" He pressed the gun closer to Bulma's head and she whelped, squeezing her eyes shut as tears flowed from her face like fresh rivers.

_No…_

"I'm through playing games! You have ten seconds, _ten FUCKING SECONDS_ , to have my money in my hand or I'll blow these beautiful brains all over this goddamned pier!"

"Fine!" Vegeta shouted, releasing Zarbon from his grip and carefully standing up. "I'll work for you Frieza! I'll sell your drugs, I-I'll make you money, just _please_ let Bulma go!"

Bulma muffled out something, but Frieza shook her and cocked his gun, his eyes growing mad and frenzied. "Shut _up!_ The deal is off, circus monkey! My money, in my hand, _ten seconds!_ Ten!"

Fuck…fuck… _fuck!_ What could he do! What could he do?

The gun pressed harder into her head. Bulma cried softly as she shook in his grasp. "Nine! Eight! Seven!"

_Nappa! Where are you!? Why haven't you shown! We've run out of time!_

"What'll be Vegeta? Six! Five!"

_How!? How could everything have failed!? He failed! He couldn't protect them after all!_

"Kill me instead!" Vegeta pleaded, hot tears rushing down his face in what he would always consider to be his most vulnerable moment. "Shoot me!"

It fell on deaf ears.

"Oh in due time, _monkey_! But right now, that isn't an valid option! Press a key and try again! _Four!_ "

Vegeta sobbed and looked at Bulma, engraining every inch of her to his memory. Flashbacks of them in bed, under the stars, in the shower all played through his brain like a black and white film. Every kiss, every hand hold, every I-love-you in the whispers of the night. Every meal, every sleep, _everything_ they shared was in jeopardy. "Please Frieza!" He dropped to his knees and sobbed, uncaring how foolish he looked or how desperate he sounded. "I _need_ her, please! Don't do this!"

"Three!"

Bulma cried harder and opened her eyes, looking at Vegeta with understanding. He could tell that underneath the tape she was smiling. Smiling because….because she knew.

Knew that this was the end.

"Two!"

Vegeta met her stare and held it, more tears pricking his eyes and rushing down his face. It was over…it was all over and he didn't save her. He would be forced to watch his family die, just like his father. And it would be all of his fault, just like his father.

He, in the end, turned out to be just like his damned father.

He opened his mouth then, wanting to take this last moment and use it to his advantage. "I love you, Bulma!" He sobbed, wiping snot on the back of his sleeve as he looked into her eyes, this woman who had taken everything he had and birthed something better. The mother of his child. His moon and stars.

His Bulma.

"I love you and I don't care what life I'm in. I will _always_ love you. I'll find you in the next world and I'll love you better! I'll love you harder! There is no me without you! Wait for me, Bulma!" Her eyes returned his sentiment and then some, fresh tears welling up and spilling over her cheeks. The tape moved and he could see it. Could see what she was trying so desperately to say.

_I love you too, Vegeta._

"I'm sorry, Bulma. I'm so sorry." His sobs were uncontrollable. He didn't care; he let it out with pre-grief.

"How _adorable_ ," Frieza said in a sickengly calm tone. And then, with a cocky smile to Vegeta, he pushed the gun closer to her scalp, his tone eerily cool and calm as he said:

"One."

And then, there was a shot.

oooOOOooo

_A/N_

_I know, I know. I'm sorry to leave you on a cliff hanger but it's necessary. This chapter was one of those chapters I saw in the beginning when I planned this story out. I hoped it conveyed all that I intended it to._

_Please rate and review, guys! I'd love to hear your feedback on this one!_

_Only_ _**two chapters left before this story is finished. Keep a look out on my Tumblr for a sappy, emotional post around that time.** _

_Until next time, my friends!_


	26. Rebirth

_**Concerto Twenty-Six: Rebirth** _

oooOOOooo

There was so much blood. Too much blood, in fact, that it almost made Vegeta nauseous.

It was as if time slowed to complete still then, the air dissipating from his lungs, and he was sure that this was it. That any remaining fuel to his life had dissolved until he was left a shallowed corpse of regret and heartache. What…what had he done in his life that was _so_ bad that it had to resort to _this_? Vegeta thought back in the briefly allotted time his brain had given him, thought back to a time when he was just a boy with a dream. Back when he first picked up a violin, first touched the keys of a piano, first learned the difference between _G sharp_ and _B flat_ and how he could use this knowledge to write a song. When he first realized his parents, while in love with each other, carried a toxic relationship that trickled down to their children. The day when he lay on his back, a boy of fourteen, staring at the ceiling while he could hear them screaming at each other downstairs, and thought how he deserved better than this. How one day he would have a family and he would never scream at them or make them feel abandoned. How he would have a pretty wife in a nice house and children who asked him to teach them to play the piano.

And with a gut wrenching stomach drop, Vegeta watched that childlike dream scatter in the wind as the blood raced down Bulma's face.

Her expression was frozen, her lips forming into a perfect circle as her widened eyes housed tiny pupils that centered on his face. The after sound of the gunshot hung in the air like fog around them, the air eerily silent as the consequences of the shot spiraled out in front of Vegeta's eyes. Her beautiful hair clung to the side of her cheeks desperately, the blue strands getting tainted with the cruel color of crimson.

Bulma…she…no… _no_! He had tried to save her….didn't he? He should have tried harder! The woman…this woman that he had vowed to protect…he _failed_. He fucking failed and now she and their child paid the ultimate blood price. He couldn't take his eyes away from her, even though his brain demanded that he look away, that he didn't need to see her final moments like this. That he needed to remember her with a sunny smile and oceans for eyes beaming with love and life. Remember her with her milky skin and her sky kissed hair and her pouty lips that he would stare at for hours. Especially when she was sleeping. He loved most to watch her then, so unguarded and peaceful, tucked neatly into his arms while she slobbered on his shoulder with her light snoring. That's how he should remember her. Not like this.

A small part of him braced himself for Frieza's stupid face, for his stupid laugh. He didn't care what happened to him then; the moment that Frieza chortled out his 'oh-hoh-hoh-hoh!', Vegeta would snap. He didn't care if Vegeta shot him right between the brows then, he would lunge at him just like he did with Zarbon and Dodoria and he would enact revenge on Frieza himself. He didn't care if this turned into some dramatic Romeo and Juliet scene, there was no way that he had to watch Bulma… die… like that and hear her killer taunt him with some self-satisfying laugh. He held his breath and waited, his fingers balling into a fist already.

It never came.

Instead, as the air slowly began to inflate his lungs again, Vegeta heard a sound so beautiful it brought his eyes to tears.

Bulma, with blood rushing just past her mouth, took off her tape and gasped.

It was a sharp inhale of breath that screamed relief and confusion, and for a second Vegeta's pessimism took over as he found himself preparing for the punchline to this situation. There…there was no way….he saw….he _heard_ the shot….he saw the blood…Bulma…was…she was…

The arm the held her tightly under her chest began to lose its strength, lazily falling past her stomach until it rested at her hip, eventually flapping around like dead weight. And to Vegeta's surprise, to his unexpected surprise that was interlocked with hope, Bulma let out a choking sob as the body of Frieza slumped to the ground behind her, his gun -his _unused_ gun- clanking to the wooden floor board. Vegeta watched carefully, his eyes still wide in case life was indeed playing a cruel joke on him, as Bulma shifted her gaze to her feet, looking at Frieza's fallen gun and his frozen hand as if they would poison her if she touched them. And then, with careful restraint, she looked back to Vegeta, questions sleeping in her eyes that were about to be birthed awake.

This…this couldn't be….

"V-V-Vegeta…." She whispered, saying his name cautiously as if it were taboo. He watched her swallow, watched as the seconds ticked past them until her face crumpled like balled up paper. Her chin scrunched together as her lips trembled, her large eyes closing as tears rushed past her eyelashes and left traces on her cheeks. "Vegeta," she said with a little more confidence, her voice shaking and threatening to break. There was so much _need_ for him in those three syllables, so many demands for him when she spoke his name, that it forced him to his feet.

He walked over to her carefully, waiting for the moment that Frieza would get back up and point that gun towards them. Bulma, being the smart woman that she was, grunted in the middle of her tears and kicked it away from them, the pistol stopping just short of the edge of the dock. She opened her eyes and looked to him, confusion, stress and relief colliding together until her facial expression was left behind. Vegeta reached out to touch her face the second he was close enough to do so, his trembling fingers expecting to collide with a ghost.

But she was real. She was real and warm and _solid_ under the pad of his thumb, his eyes searching her face for any sign that this was all a lie.

"Bulma," he said softly, praying to whoever was listening that this moment wouldn't turn in on itself, "Are you…b-but… _how_ …?"

Her own lips trembled, her hand coming up to cover his. He watched her slowly break under his heavy stare until she sobbed openly, loudly. She threw herself against him then, her head falling just underneath his chin, her body vibrating with all of the intensity that the past moments had forced them to endure. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close to him and pressing his lips to the top of her head. He couldn't deny it to himself anymore: Bulma was _alive_. She was alive! She may have been bawling uncontrollably in his embrace at the moment, but she was here and breathing and _alive_. And their baby…

Vegeta pushed her gently away from her then, pressing his hand to the front of her stomach. He stared at her desperately, the scene of Zarbon kicking her in the belly flashing through his mind like a bad movie. Bulma pressed her hand on top of his, her own eyes showing the sign of defeat. But then, like the sun after a rainstorm, she smiled.

"I think…I think the baby is okay, Vegeta," her tears didn't stop coming, and to her credit, neither did Vegeta's. "I just…I know I'll have to get checked out, but I really think the baby is okay!"

He wanted to believe it, he really _did_ , but Zarbon's strength….

He pulled her back into him, wrapping his arms around her with the unspoken promise that this would _never_ happen again. Running his fingers through her hair, still damp with blood, he looked down to Frieza with concealed rage, taking in the man's lifeless form as blood pooled around him like a halo. _Good you fucking bastard_ , he thought, before realizing that _someone shot Frieza_.

"Bulma," he hugged her tighter then, looking around them to see if any other threats were in the area, "Someone else is here. Frieza didn't die all on his own." He felt her stiffen underneath him and he could taste the fear that resonated from her skin. Trying to soothe her, he ran his hand up and down her back, placing another kiss to the top of her head. "Don't worry Bulma. I won't let anyone else hurt you."

She nodded, turning her head to look around the area with him. The heavy blanket of night shadowed them, leaving no area of the dock untouched. The only evidence that someone else was here was the body of Frieza, lifeless and cold, his eyes opened wide in shock. "I'm scared, Vegeta," Bulma whispered, wrapping her arms about his middle tightly, her fingers knotting at his suit jacket. "I just want it all to be over. I just want to go home with you!"

"We _are_ going home," he gritted through his teeth, eyeing the lone gun that Bulma kicked away only minutes prior, "You and me and our child are going home tonight. We're going to order a fucking pizza and have a bath and get some sleep and we are doing that tonight, dammnit!" He shouted the last part of his words into the open. A threat. A threat to whomever still lurked in the shadows that this wasn't going to be their graveside. That they would survive. That their nightmare was over and it was time to wake up.

From behind them, Zarbon and Dodoria began to moan out, gaining conscious back after Vegeta's beating. He turned around warily, pushing Bulma to his back and guarding her with his left arm. He was so sure that his eyes burned with the flame of the determined, and he would set those two assholes on fire before he _ever_ let them near Bulma or their child again.

Zarbon sat up first, grabbing his temples and grimacing in pain. It took awhile for him to register his surroundings, his angry eyes first making contact with Vegeta and unveiling schemes of his vengeance. But then he shifted focus behind them, and Vegeta relished in every moment that realization dawned on the bastard's face.

"Fr…Frieza…." Zarbon whispered, completely in shock that the man who had ran his life since he was a child was now _dead._ Accusing eyes darted to Vegeta and Bulma, and Zarbon scowled and stood, his pain no longer a factor. "You son of a bitch," he groaned, lifting his blazer to display a blade tucked into his pants. Vegeta was shocked that Zarbon didn't try to pull it out during their one sided fight, but then again, adrenaline rushes were nothing short of fascinating.

Zarbon stood, his knife brandished tightly in his hand, and kicked Dodoria's side. "Get up fat ass," he snarled, his golden eyes swaying unsettlingly in the dark. Dodoria grunted but obeyed, wiping almost dried blood from under his nose. When Zarbon nodded to Frieza's corpse, Dodoria sprang to life, murdering Vegeta with a threatening glare.

"You bastard," Dodoria seethed, grinding a fist into an open palm, "You're going to pay for that, Vegeta. We'll avenge Frieza if it's the last thing we do."

"Bulma," Vegeta whispered, standing straighter and preparing to fight, "On my command, you will _run_."

"Are you kidding me?" She balled his jacket into her palms, her tone wet with unshed tears. "I'm _not_ leaving you, Vegeta. _We're_ going home, but I can't do that if-"

"Bulma!" Vegeta looked over his shoulder, his eyes offering no hint of negotiation. " _Please_. I need you to get out of here. I'll be alright, but I'll be damned if something happens to you. Trust me."

"But-"

" _Trust_ _me_ , Bulma," he smiled the best he could, begging with everything he had in him that she could go. The truth was…Vegeta didn't know how much strength he had in him to defend them against Zarbon and Dodoria. Didn't know if he could properly take one on, let alone both of them. He truthfully didn't know if he would survive a jump attack like this one, but he knew one thing and one thing for certain:

Bulma and their child would survive. They had to.

"I love you," he said before turning back to them, his mouth pressing into a straight line, "Now _go_."

He heard her whimper and then felt her fingers reluctantly leave his back. He felt a little bit colder when she did, but he also felt relieved. _This_ time he would protect them, even if it meant his own life in the process was given.

"That won't be necessary, Vegeta."

His blood stilled, the voice coming from the shadows. Zarbon and Dodoria looked equally as confused, their attention to Vegeta temporarily forgotten as they scanned their surroundings. They might have not recognized that voice….but Vegeta did. And he followed the trail of which it came from to his right, to the entrance of the dock.

To the entrance where a long haired man walked slowly, a pistol pointed in their direction.

 _Raditz_!

Raditz had a steady arm as the gun directed itself towards Zarbon and Dodoria, his eyes focused and serious. Bulma gasped, her hands finding home in Vegeta's jacket again as she exclaimed he was the guy from the wedding and Kakarot's brother. Raditz looked over to her and smiled, nodding lightly. "I'm really sorry that you had to go through that, Bulma. I guess I showed up in the nick of time."

" _Raditz_ ," Zarbon spat, the corners of his mouth pooling with saliva. "You fucking traitorous _bastard_ , what the hell are you doing pointing that thing at us!?"

Raditz threw his head back and laughed, his bright canines sparkling in the night. "Traitor? Why, in order to be a traitor Zarbon, doesn't that imply that some sort of treaty was in place originally?" His face straightened itself out, his eyes glimmering with malice. "I have no obligation to you, Dodoria, or Frieza for that matter."

" _You_ …" Zarbon had his second awakening in a matter of minutes as he looked from Frieza's body to Raditz, his eyes growing colder by the minute. "You killed him? After the mercy he'd given you?"

"Mercy? You call killing my father _after_ sending him to kill his comrade and his innocent family _mercy_? You call the hell that you and your _boss_ placed on their children _mercy_? I wouldn't say that's any kind act, would you, Vegeta?"

Vegeta looked back and forth from Raditz to Zarbon and Dodoria carefully, still holding Bulma behind him territorially. This…this didn't make _sense_. Raditz!? The man who was such a coward that he couldn't even go to the police in the first place against Frieza had actually _shot_ him?

What the hell kind of life had they been born into?

"Raditz," Vegeta demanded, speaking with the same authority he gave his orchestra, "How did you even know to come here?"

Raditz smiled, pulling out his cellphone and dangling it in the air. "Nappa said that Frieza had gotten ahold of Bulma and drug you out here into the docks. I…I remember hearing from my father a long time ago that this dock is nicknamed Frieza's Graveyard. That he takes all of his victims out here to be killed and disposes of their body in some acid vats here. Isn't that right, Zarbon? Frieza had some little… _arrangement_ with the owners here. No one was going to leave here alive tonight, not even you Vegeta. No one outside of those three, that is. As soon as Nappa told me, I rushed over. And," Raditz features softened then, remorse swimming across his face, "And I did what I had to do."

"You fucking _ape_!" Zarbon, in all of his stupidity, lunged towards Raditz, despite Dodoria telling him to stop. Raditz, the coward that Vegeta _thought_ he was, fired a direct shot into his leg, making Zarbon fall to the floorboards groaning. "You…you shot me!"

"And I'll do it again if you so much as look at me wrong," he threatened, but even Vegeta could hear the hesitancy in his tone. Raditz looked over to them then, his eyes sympathetic. "You guys okay? I'm really sorry about the blood Bulma, but I couldn't let him shoot you."

"It's okay," Bulma whispered, as quiet as a mouse, her body still pressed into Vegeta's back like a shy babe to its mother.

"We're fine Raditz." Vegeta swallowed, looking at the man with a renewed sense of confidence. Not too long ago he had considered Raditz to be less of a man, to hold a smoking gun and refuse to use it, passing along the responsibility to someone else. But….but if it wasn't for Raditz, they would all be _dead_. And so he followed up with a, "Thank you Raditz. I owe you my life."

Raditz chuckled and shook his head, waving the gun back and forth between Zarbon and Dodoria. "Nonsense, Vegeta. It was actually I who owed you something. And now I've delivered. I…I should have done more for your family, maybe they'd still be alive. But I hope taking out the bastard who did it is a good start."

Vegeta stood there speechless, unable to form a coherent sentence to articulate how he felt. Raditz….Raditz had gotten his vengeance for his father. He had gotten vengeance for himself, for having to walk around with the guilt of the dead, for having to look at Vegeta for years and not be able to say something about it. But…but he had also gotten _Vegeta's_ vengeance too. For _his_ family. For Bulma. For _him_.

He could never thank the man enough.

"Don't move Dodoria!" Raditz shouted, gripping the handle tighter. Vegeta turned to see Dodoria drop his hands, clearly about to take out a weapon of some sort. "I'll fucking shoot you right here, right now. Be a good boy and wait patiently, I've arranged a ride for you and Zarbon."

Dodoria's eyes widened before narrowing, snarling as he probably killed them all in his head. "Just you wait, fucking Raditz. You know, I had the pleasure of taking the final blow against your dad. Got to see the light drain out from his eyes _reaaaaal_ nice and slow, you know? I can't wait until I get to do the same thing to you."

"Oh?" Raditz mouth curved up into a smile, dangling the phone again in his hands. "Care to say more, Dodoria? Please, go ahead and incriminate yourself, I'm sure the police would love to hear the rest."

"You've been recording?" Bulma's tone was as clear as running waters, the stress in her voice almost gone. "That's really smart of you."

"I knew better than to show up here empty handed. If we're going to get evidence, we need to make it _good_." Just then, far in the distance until it grew louder and louder, sirens played their song as police cars flooded the dock, zooming in at such a high speed that Vegeta was afraid they were all going to get run over.

"What the _fuck!?_ " Zarbon screamed, clutching his bloodied leg and glaring at Raditz. "I swear Raditz, you'll regret this! I don't care how long it takes, I _will_ find a way to kill you!"

"Hmph, good luck," Raditz smiled, dropping the gun as the police stormed from their vehicles, racing towards them. "I'm sure you'll have a _lot_ of time to plot something. Better make it good, princess." Raditz turned to Vegeta again, his eyes sad and distant. "I'm really sorry Vegeta. I…I had to make it up to you. I know my apology won't bring them back, but this was the least I could do."

Vegeta had no time to reply as the scene erupted with officers. A swarm of them gathered around Dodoria and Zarbon, gathering them in handcuffs and hurriedly reading them their rights. They took them to the car like they were animals, chained and tamed and ready to be displayed at the local circus. A few officers high fived each other, exclaiming delight in _finally_ being able to arrest members of Frieza's gang.

"Hey," Bulma whispered, stepping to Vegeta's side, "I know these guys. These are the officers that were there when I went to bail out Yamcha." As if she spoke them up, two of them walked towards them with Nappa in tow, one of the officers sporting a serious expression that offered little to no room for games. A face much similar to his own, Vegeta thought.

The other one, who's face was equally as serious but held less of the intimidating glow, smiled widely as he looked over to Bulma. "Aaah, Miss Briefs. So nice to see you again, minus the circumstances that is. You know, after you came by that day I went home and told my whole neighborhood that I met _the_ Bulma Briefs. Most of them aren't into sciences, but still they said that-"

" _Nail."_ The officer with the intimidating face, who's name badge read Piccolo, scolded his partner, shaking his head with disapproval. "Wrong place, wrong time."

Bulma scoffed mockingly. Vegeta made a mental note to ask about it later.

Officer Piccolo offered them two blankets and an apologetic smile, one that seemed forced and unnecessary. "I'm very sorry you all had to go through this ordeal. I know it's a lot right now, but in a few I'll need to take you to the hospital and then down to the station for statements. Shouldn't be too long, considering everything we have against them already. I suppose you can thank Nappa for that. He's been the brains behind this whole operation, as much as I _don't_ want to admit it."

"Yes excellent job with the file drive," Nail, the other officer, dipped his hat in their direction. "Years worth of evidence was in there, I was pretty surprised. Only shame is that we couldn't actually _get_ Frieza, seeing that _someone_ took justice into their own hands. God, when will people learn?"

At that moment Vegeta overlooked all of them to see Raditz being cuffed himself and led away to the police cars. Something hot boiled inside of Vegeta's chest and he wanted to slap all of these officers around silly. "What the hell are you all doing?! He saved our lives for fuck's sake!"

"We understand, sir," Officer Piccolo started, "But murder is still murder. That's why you wait for the _police_ to show up instead. Besides," he said with a sigh, "It's just protocol at this point. That guy's name is written all over those documents. I'm sure he's got a _pretty_ lengthy statement to give about Frieza and his goons. Could put them all away for a long time. I'm sure the state will work out some sort of deal with him. Can't see him doing jail time for very long if so."

" _Jail_ time!?" Bulma squeaked, ignoring Vegeta's heavy arm and standing in Officer Piccolo's face. "Excuse me _officer_ , but I was just almost killed! In fact, if Raditz hadn't have shown up when he did, you would have come to _two_ dead bodies and not just one! And Frieza would've gotten away with it as always!"

"Oh come on, Miss Briefs," Officer Nail threw his hands up, his respect for Bulma overshadowing his authority, "We've _got_ to arrest the guy. For one, it ensures a solid testimony. And for two, _it's our job_. Do you really think that every person sitting in a jail cell right now is there because they're guilty?"

"That doesn't make it right! _He saved my life!_ Where's the justice in his arrest!?"

Nappa laughed heartedly, throwing his hand on his stomach. "My my, you've certainly gotten a _feisty_ one, Vegeta! She reminds me a lot of Natsumi!" He stepped forward and placed a hand on Bulma's shoulder, staring down at her with confidence. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it, Raditz will be alright. He's got good information here to shut down Frieza's whole gang and I'm guessing quite a few others too. No way the court won't want to utilize that, and Raditz will get a good lawyer who'll see to it that he gets the best deal."

"You're damned right he will!" Bulma rolled her eyes, clearly knowing she had no victory in this fight. "Because _I'm_ paying for it. I'll testify myself, if I have to. Raditz is a good man and…and…" Bulma's voice trailed off, the edges of her tone cracking with emotion. "And if it weren't for him, I'd be _dead_."

Nappa smiled reassuringly, patting the top of her head as she sniffled and wiped the back of her eyes with her sleeve. "I know, love. I know. You owe him a lot, we _all_ do. That's why I'm telling you not to worry. Raditz will survive, I believe it." He turned around and called out to Raditz, making the officers escorting him stop in their tracks. "You good, Raditz!? The lady here is worried about ya!"

Raditz smiled, looking to Bulma and nodding. "I'd do it all again if I had to, Bulma. These nice guys here will take care of me. They're already talking about buying me food, and not the rotten jail kind!"

Nail laughed at that while Piccolo groaned. "Softies, the lot of them," Piccolo grunted, "Always buying food for the criminals they _like_. I say get that man a sandwich and call it a night."

"That's why you don't have friends, Piccolo," Nail tapped his shoulder, still chuckling.

They walked away then, leaving Nappa, Vegeta and Bulma to put the pieces back together of this long night. Vegeta extended his arm out to his uncle, swallowing thickly as he struggled to catch the rhythm of his breath again. "You came through for me, Nappa. You kept your word and for that, I thank you."

Nappa stared at his hand for a moment, looking at it as if it were a foreign object. As the silence stretched between them, Nappa stepped forward heavily and pulled Vegeta into a tight embrace.

Vegeta, he….he had never been hugged by a man before. His father had no time for such affections, and Tarble's were so sugary sweet that Vegeta often felt like _he_ was doing the consoling. But Nappa….there was something fatherly about this hug. Something fatherly and warm and protective about it. And with Bulma watching them, with a slight nod in her head and tears in her eyes, Vegeta leaned into it, slowly, and awkwardly, putting his hands around Nappa's back.

"We did it," Nappa's thick voice, usually the voice of reason in Vegeta's life, began to crack, the exhaustion and worries over the past few months hitting him blindly. "You hear me, huh? We did it son. You're….you're safe. And Bulma….she's safe too. I….I protected my family this time." His voice on the last work broke completely, and Vegeta felt the dampness of Nappa's tears stain his cheeks.

Was this…was this what young boys experienced when they hugged their fathers? Did…did they feel this same sort of love and understanding and protection? Bulma had made him feel like this ten times over every time she blinked at him….but Nappa…Nappa was giving Vegeta something that he thought he would never get.

Paternal affection.

"Now you can live your _life_ , Vegeta! Now you can live your life and start over. Put this mess behind ya! Do it for Bulma, and your child. Do it for Yasai and Tarble….and your father too. I know…I know he wasn't the best, but he loved you Vegeta. And I know he's sorry. I know he's so sorry for all of this."

It was the final break of his dam. The words Vegeta needed so desperately to hear, the words he never thought that he _would._

Without his consent, his eyes watered and spilled over onto his cheeks. He tried to stop, tried to stop feeling like a damned fool, but they kept coming and coming. He stared straight ahead as he held onto Nappa, grabbing hold of him like it was the first time he had learned to show affection. He could thank Bulma for teaching him such things.

"It's alright, Veggie," Nappa chuckled, whispering a nickname that Yasai and Natsumi called Vegeta when he was younger. "Just let it out. You deserve this moment, okay? You deserve all of this." He patted Vegeta on the back, and Vegeta allowed himself to soak in the moment.

He…he _did_ deserve all of this. Bulma, his child, his future…a _family_ ….he deserved everything. He had survived hell and back, had managed to stay afloat with all of his demons making him sink. Had thought that Frieza just might…just might _win_ in this fight. Thought that Bulma had died…that his life was over…

But just as Nappa had said…his life was just _beginning_.

He sniffled and wiped his eyes, allowing Nappa to pat him one last time in the hug before they pulled away from each other, Nappa's mouth stretched into a wide grin. He had managed to cease his own tears as Vegeta finished drying his. "Don't tell Natsumi about this hug, she'll expect us to do it all of the time." Vegeta himself chuckled at that, finally composed enough to look his uncle in the eyes. "I'm proud of you Vegeta," Nappa nodded towards Bulma, a knowing grin sleeping in his irises. " _Real_ proud. Now we can carry out step two."

Bulma's eyebrow rose in confusion as Vegeta rolled his eyes. Leave it to Nappa to spoil things, even though they were already spoiled. Nappa gave Bulma a hug and a kiss on the cheek, whispering something in her ear that made her blush. He would have to ask her about _that_ later on too.

As the scene around them died down, they found themselves alone on the dock, the lull of the water behind them acting as a musical score. Vegeta's phone vibrated as Bulma stepped closer to him, a text message from Kakarot on the screen.

_Hey, Vegeta! We've been looking for ya! Whis too! He said he LOVED the concert! He even said that he has an offer none of us can refuse! NONE OF US! Does this mean that he's going to hire us as a unit? How sweet is that!? Are you coming back? We're going out to eat, call me okay! Good job, conductor! :-D_

Vegeta rolled his eyes -although a playful grin began to birth on his face- and shut his phone, deciding to deal with one thing after another. Besides, there was something and someone who deserved his undivided attention at the moment.

Those eyes that could move mountains and start wars looked up at him with the affection that had been missing in Vegeta's life since before she entered. Absolutely beautiful, like a sonnet of sunrise after nightfall, and captivating. Bulma threw her arms around his middle, resting her head against his chest. "It's over," she breathed a sigh of relief, wrapping herself into his arms. "It's all over now, I'm so happy."

"We've got to get you to a hospital, Bulma," he said against her hair, pulling her closer. "Our child…I need to make certain."

She nodded, pulling back and staring into his face. "We'll go right away, I promise. I just need to breathe for a second, soak all of this in. Is it possible, Vegeta, that we really get to live out lives now without impending doom? That we can live….happily?"

He didn't answer her.

Instead he brought his face to hers, pulling her lips into his own as he let his kiss answer her, tasting her with a sense of renewal and rebirth. _God_ , how good it felt to kiss the woman he loved without fear that he would taint her soul into oblivion. How good it felt to know that this was the first day of many tomorrows, of many next weeks and next years.

 _This_ was what Vegeta wanted. Not fame. Not fortune. Not his name on some Broadway marquee.

All Vegeta wanted was a chance to play music and a second chance at having the family he deserved. A family that his mother, and Tarble and yes, even his father, would be proud to see him have.

And all it took was a yes.

Vegeta pulled away from her then, caressing the sides of her face and looking at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. How did the universe manage to smile down on him and gift him with the greatest composition of them all? How he had managed to have Bulma in his life, after all of their petty arguments, after all of their disagreements and their worlds falling apart around them, was a mystery he never wanted to question.

And with that, he dropped down.

Bulma's face, even though they had talked about it, even though he told her this was what he wanted, still looked as hopeful as if Vegeta was asking her for the first time. "When I woke up this morning," he started, grabbing her hand into his own, "I didn't know how today would end. I was afraid, I was sick to my stomach with worry, and the only thing that calmed me down was you. The only thing that ever calms me down is you." Bulma took a deep breath, the corners of her eyes glistening under the moon's rays.

"I…I've never believed in the idea of soulmates. I thought it was some fairy tale that the lonely invented to make themselves feel better when their relationships failed. Love seemed so unnecessary that I never cared for it. I'm not a romantic, I don't like being overly affectionate, but back then in the alley with you kicking the wall, _that_ day, I changed my mind."

He reached into his pocket, fisting around for his prize. And when he found it, a small yellow box with an old ribbon wrapped around it, he opened it and let her see the inside.

For the rest of his life, he would always remember how her eyes sparkled when she saw it.

"This was my mother's ring, the same one my father proposed to her with. She used….She used to tell me and Tarble that when he gave her this ring, she knew he never loved her more. It's an antique, something she had always wanted instead of a modern ring, and I held onto it after the funeral. Even with all my pessimism, it seemed like life knew that one day I was going to meet you. And here I am."

"And here you are," she whispered, mocking a conversation they had so long ago. Back when, under the influence of whisky, Vegeta had kissed her for the first time. He chuckled.

"Bulma I…I'm not perfect. I'm not always the nicest or easiest to get along with. And I can be stubborn and selfish and impatient. But you…you seem to make me feel like I'm _worth_ it. And…And I could never repay you. But I promise you I'll spend my life trying to until my last breath. So Bulma Briefs, the smart, intelligent, talented, creative and _beautiful_ Bulma Briefs, will you continue this journey with me? And…And will you be my wife?"

Even though she had already answered this question before, the look of delight that captured her face made Vegeta's heart break and heal itself over and over again. She dropped down with him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him, holding her hand out as he slid the ring on her finger. The perfect fit.

"I've experienced heaven and hell with you, Vegeta," she said as she pulled back, smiling at him as if it were the first time she'd learn to use her lips, "And I'll do it every day for the rest of my life, Mr. N'Ouija."

Vegeta had a flashback to the day she was shopping for a dress to the wedding. To the day when she tried on that gown, to when he envisioned her walking down the aisle towards him. He didn't tell her that since that day, this was all he could think about. When to propose, _how_ to propose, and if she would even accept it in the first place. But now…now after everything…it was perfect. A perfect ending to a hellish story, a book that Vegeta finally held the pen for.

So under the new moon, under the stars that shined on the start of their new era, Vegeta brushed the hair from his fiancé's face and said:

"I'll hold you to that, _Mrs_. N'Ouija."

oooOOOooo

_A/N:_

_We're not done yet! There's still ONE more chapter! An epilogue! Time to wrap this story up the right way!_

_Thank you, thank you THANK YOU for all of your reviews or kudos or favorites for Concerto. I'll save my emotional post for the last chapter, but I'm in such a happy place writing this that it's going to spill over a bit here. This will be the first story I have EVER finished outside of Oracular Spectacular, my first Smutfest 2016 entry._

_Thank you all for sticking around with me this past year and some change. The next chapter will give you all the ending that everyone deserves. Give me a few weeks (maybe shorter) to get it out. After the reviews from last week, I didn't want to leave you guys hanging too much. Please read and review!_

_I seriously love you all and I can never thank you enough._


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